V"o3lu 11.
[For the Banner of the South.)
With The Tide.
KY CORIOLA.
I am drifting clown the river,
And the crested Pontic tide
Bears me onward, pausing never,
In its stately flowing pride;
How I hate this steady measure—
Will it never faster flow ?
This, is neither pain nor pleasure—
Stagnant weal is worse than woe.
There is Isis, just before me—
‘‘Presence, fair as fair can be,
Let me lift the veil that’s o’er thee—
Let us seek the smiling sea,
And in fair and sweet alliance,
We will w r ake the downward deep
With a ringing, loud defiance
To the Terror in his keep.”
Dark, is come upon the river,
In its silent, sullen flow,
And the stars begin to quiver
In the darker deep below ;
One by one, are disappearing
All the signs of peaceful rest—
them go, for I am nearing
Isis—fairy goddess guest!
Now, the shadows, darker falling,
With a thicker veil, conceal
The illusion that is calling,
In a silvery trumpet peal;
And the Pontic tide is flowing
To a dreary, sunless sea,
This, I know, and, if so knowing
Suits with Fate, it suits with me.
Atlanta , Aug., 1869.
[Written for the Banner of the South.]
THE INDIAN MAIDEN.
BY P. DR C. 11., OF SO. CA.
(concluded.)
CHAPTER IV.
The next morning dawned so clear
and bright, that, could our great Prelate
have entertained in the elements of his
lofty nature but a shade of the super
stition by which he was surrounded,
he would surely have regarded as a fa
vorable augury the propitious opening
of the day. Clouds of exquisite bril
liancy, circled like curtains of burnished
gold around the sun, as lie slowly rose
from his couch in the East. But there
was so much anxiety in the heart of the
good Prelate, that his powers of percep
tion and enjoyment seemed benumbed.
He considered that this was already his
last day at the palace of the Prince, and
that it would pass as the one before, amid
festivities, and uninterrupted companion
ship, with no chance of his fixing upon
any sche ne for the deliverance of the
poor Caroline. lie felt so unfitted for
pleasures prepared for him, that it was
with difficulty he could command a feigned
interest in, and enjoyment of them. It
was a gala day, but one of great trial to
him, and he hailed the return of night
with infinite delight. When he had re
tired for his rest, he demanded of Omar,
much anxiety and impatience, what
he had to say to him.
1 lie slave informed him that among
the numerous eunuchs who guarded the
la re in, he had a particular friend, of
n i mi he had inquired concerning the
cap.me. He having corroborated the
* moment ot the previous evening, they
concerted together to effect an en
mnee into the Harem for the Christian
i' iate; for it was essential that he
'‘| rst see Caroline himself, that he
ni W mduee her to attempt a flight;
, k’ 1 ’ continued the Mussulman, “she
( ccts sudi indifference for life, and
’ -thing else, that she will surely re-
persuasion. Being an un
* tu i j she is perfectly insensi
■ii° 0t ie honors conlerred upon her, and,
'i 1 >e of our Prince’s unbounded kiud-
I >u tience, and affection, in exacting
, ‘ “ u flic homage and deference due a
c* », her only return is in increasing
ur> ’ prayers for death. Had she
half the courage of a Mahometan woman,
she would, herself, end the existence
which she pretends is so miserable to
her. But, our dear Prince continues his
goodness and favors to her in spite of her
ingratitude, and, were she other than
Christian she would long since have been
touched by his condescension, and be
come reconciled unto happiness and a
proper submission.”
‘‘Remember,” interrupted the great
Prelate, scarcely able to control his anger
at the unfeeling insolence of the slave,
‘ Remember that time is brief; what we
do must be done at once, this being my
last night; disclose to me, at once, what
ever arrangement you and the eunuch
may have made.”
‘‘You must disguise yourself,” re
sponded Omar, “as a eunuch, remember
ing that your life depends upon your
presence of mind. I have obtained the
key to a small private entrance into the
garden of the Harem. Once within the
walls, you move among daggers and wea
pons held by guards, prepared to take
your life on a single suspicion. The
watchword of the night is “Beauty.” I
have ascertained that the favorite walk
of the Christian woman is under a row
of treas growing upon the western bank
of the stream which flows through the
garden; you had best linger around the
spot, for it is her unfailing habit to re
pair there every evening—doubtless for
some of her absurd forms of worship.
In this bundle, which I have brought,
concealed beneath my robe, you will find
the garments of a eunuch, which, as soon
as you don, we will proceed. Follow me
at a short distance, and you will be taken
for a slave, which will render our egress
from the palace unnoticed. I will ac
company you within sight of the wall,
but dare go no farther.”
Ere the slave had ceased speaking,
the great Prelate, who had taken the dis
guise from him, had vested himself in it,
and, now, to alb appearances, being trans
formed into a slave, followed Omar as
directed. They gained the outside of the
palace without adventure, and receiving
explicit directions from the slave as to
the position of the private gate, bid him
remain where he was until bis return,
that he might render any necessary as
sistance in executing the plans lie would
form, after seeing Caroline, for tran
sporting her to the horses which his faith
ful adherents kept in readiness. The
Prelate now proceeded alone, but not
without that feeling of anxious care
which the knowledge of the uncertainty
of his undertaking rendered paramount
in his heart. A single curious look from
one of the many sentry, sure to be en
countered, wou’d cause his instant death;
the poor captive would be condemned to
a life long misery, rendered more bitter
by the tidings of a failure in her attempt
ed rescue, and her mother, urged by her
desperate nature, to the commission of a
suicide, which would cause the loss of
her soul. Thoughts suggested by these
axiomatical circumstances passed rapidly
through his mind, as he groped along the
wall, in the place indicated for the se
cret gateway. He felt and looked care
fully by the softened light from the stars
and young moon, and at length discover
ed the door. To pass his hand over it
and find the keyhole was the movement
of a second, and then the key was slipped
in. But, alas ! it failed to turn; it was in
the hole, deep and far, but was as firm
as a l ock in its resistance to move. A
steady pressure to the right, then to the
left—it was still immovable. Then the
entire strength of a powerful man, des
perately determined to turn it, met with
the same unflinching resistance. This
result, for moment, caused the blood to re
cede from his heart, as the thought flashed
upon him, “Can I, then, have been the
dupe of the Mussulman slave ?” An
other trial, and then another again, ended
in the same way. lie returned to the
spot whence he had parted with Omar ;
he was there, and greatly astonished at
SEPTEMBER 11, 1869.
his speedy return, and seemed still more
so by what he heard. The place being
unusually quiet, he took the key and ven
tured to go himself, but returned in a
few minutes having met with the same
disappointment. An interview with his
eunuch friend at that hour was impossi
ble, so that nothing could be done until
he could see him the next day. Mean
time, the term of the Prelate’s invitation
had expired, and, as preparations for his
escort and departure on the next day,
had been made, nothing remained to
him but to feign sickness, that he might
gain a little more time. He returned to
his apartment in the palace, but not to
sleep, for his cruel disappointment pre
vented that, and he awaited the morrow
with extreme restlessness, fearing the re
sult of his sudden illness upon the Prince.
- •«s»* ~w«*
CHAPTER V.
The morning after his first essay'to
meet the unfortunate Caroline, found our
kind Prelate scarcely guilty of decep
tion, when he remained in his room under
the plea of sickness, for the unmitigated
anxiety and responsibility which had
pressed upon his brain during the past
few days, had caused his head to throb
and ache to a degree that would have
unfitted him for a journey, unless one
upon some urgent and important busi
ness. He accordingly despatched a mes
senger to Abubeker, tendering his
homage, and, while recognizing his hos
pitality of the past two days, entreated
Bis kindness in allowing him to remain
yet another, adding, that his health might
be strengthened by the additional rest
for proceeding on his journey most posi
tively on the next day.
The Prince visited him in person, and,
expressing concern at his indisposition,
readily granted permission for him to re
main over another night.
During the weary day that he had to
endure, the slave Dinar found means of
seeing the friendly eunuch in the Harem,
and heard from him, that, in the confusion
and precaution necessary to purloin the
key, he had taken one belonging to an
other door, and discovered his error too
late to correct it. But, alas! the conse
quences which the loss of this opportuni
ty entailed, were of a nature as serious
as they were aggravating, for the eunuch
communicated to Omar the fact of a
complete change of sentry, which was
being made in the Harem that very day,
which would deprive him of all opportu
nity of aiding them in effecting an en
trance for the Prelate. He promised,
however, to keep on the alert and take
advantage of any chance in their favor.
This intelligence greatly dismayed
the good Prelate who was already chafing
under his accumulated trials and disap
pointments, and he longed with burning
anxiety for the denouement of tiiis singu
lar adventure. His sole alternative was
to extend his illness into another day,
and, in event of his not being able, in
that time, to effect an interview with
Caroline, he saw the necessity of a change
in his base of operations; for he well
knew that the suspicions of the untrust
ing Piiuce would be aroused by the pro
longed stay of one whom he knew to
possess a (to him) mysterious and pow
erful inilueuce in many parts of the
country. And where else could he hope
ta have the opportunities and aid which
he was fortunate enough to have found in
the palace ? And how complete would
have to be his disguise and secrecy in
any other part of the city. While, on
the other hand, should he ever succeed in
impressing the Prince with a belief in
bis sickness, how cuuld be, at the end of
an indefinite time, depart suddenly ?
Would not the abduction of the favorite,
his speedy ability to travel, and conse
quent exit from the city, be immediately
connected ? and then, pursuit, with its
certain success and inevitably fatal con
sequences to the fugitives would follow,
and all would be over. No! he must be
‘ a diplomatist, accomplished enough to
baffle every shadow of suspicion, and this
long, weary day must be devoted to the
planning of a scheme so complete in its
sublety as to enable him to execute all
without exciting distrust.
This day and the succeeding night at
length slowly waned into their position
in the long rank of “bygones,” and again
did he urge the excuse of continued suf
fering to prolong his stay. The Prince,
this time, received the message with
marked coldness, nor did he trouble him
self with undue inquiries as to the health
of his guest, or visit him, as on the pre
vious day.
This coldness and symptom of distrust,
added fever to the subjective suffering of
the great Prelate, and confirmed him in
his determination of at least a pseudo
departure on the morrow without delay.
In the evening Omar, presented him
self, and imparted the pleasing intelli
gence of an unlooked for stroke of good
fortune, His friend had gotten posses
sion of the real key of the private gate,
and with an injunction to follow to the
letter the directions already given, said
that things were as accessible this night
as they would ever be. His admonition
for immediate action was useless, for our
good Prelate was soon disguised as be
fore, and on his way for the second at
tempt.
Fie reached the garden gate, and this
time the key turned with ease, its soft
click being followed by the springing
open of the door. To return thanks to
the Most High, enter, re-lock, and conceal
the key in his bosom, were the acts of a
second filled with intensest heart-relief.
Then the vision which burst upon his
eye, in the glowing moonlight, was like
enchantment! Every sense seemed pre
sided over by a power for its especial
gratification and delight. The eye feast
ed upon the perfect landscape of the
garden; the car caught, with rapture,
the clear, flute-like notes of a thousand
nightingales. The commingled odors of
heliotrope, ambrosia, and roses, together
with the rich fragrance of the different
kinds of acacias which freighted the air
with powder from their soft and downy
puffs, would, in yerv truth, have “made
taint with too much sweet” the delicate
nostril, had it not been for a gentle and
refreshing breeze. This seemed to be
generated in a grove of solemn looking
old palms, which grouped themselves
around the southern wall of the garden,
like a procession of ancient Triumvirs;
while the grave and subdued rustling
among their branches, sounded as though
they were debating earnestly, some ab
struse precept of the law. Towards the
North, were hanging gardens, netted to
gether by means of gaudy colored ver
benas, relieved by slender little mosses
and vines, which stretched out their ten
drils and green sprays in patterns as in
tricate as lace work. Every here and
there were clusters of the tube rose and
tringed carnation, trying in vain to hold
erect their heavily perfumed heads.
Knots of virgin myrtle, and exquisite
shrubs of olio, together with untold va
rieties of rare and spicy plants, all seem
ed t«) contend for precedence in loveli-
ness or merit throughout this magic
scene. Ever and anon a crystal fountain
appeared intent upon making a music of
its own, and the gentle splashing against
its marble basin seemed truly to “loosen
the notes in a silvery shower.” Build
ings answering the purposes of Summer
houses shone in tiny magnificence at ir
regular intervals among the trees. And
through the centre of the garden flowed
a stream, so clear, so placid in its tran
sparency, as to resemble glass, whose
banks were covered by a rich carpet of
feathery grass, rivaling in softness those
from Turkey, which stretched over the
floors in the Harem. This latter building
even surpassed the palace in the grandeur
of its appearance. There were columns
supporting light and graceful verandahs
of crimson and green porphyry, intersect
ed, here and there, by one of shining jas-
per, presenting an aspect at once bril
liant and unique. The walls and doors
were of ivory and mother o’pearl, inlaid
with precious stones. Draperies of cloths
of gold and silver hung carelessly over
the ottomans and luxurious cushions in
the apartments; and, in fine, everything
was on the most gorgeous scale of Orien
tal wealth and pomp.
We have devoted so much time to an
imperfect bird’s-eye view of the Harem
and its surroundings, that our narrative
has remained unnoticed for a longer pe
riod than we would desire. Return we,
then, to our good Prelate, whom we left
just entering the beautiful garden. He
had proceeded but a few steps, when he
encountered one of the guard, who de
manded the pass-word. It being given,
he was allowed to advance. His course
was interrupted in this wise many times,
always with the same fortunate result.
At length, he reached the spot to which
he was directed, and descried Caroline
seated upon a bank of ferns. She was
no longer robed in her simple white
dress, but wore a robe of gossamer tex
ture, embroidered with pearls and threads
of gold; it was confined around the
waist by a zone of rich satin, studded with
rare jewels, and was carelessly gathered
up over the bosom and fastened by a
solitaire diamond of immense value. A
scarf of crimson silk, the richest that
India could produce, fringed with gold,
was wound elegautly around her head,
and hung in two graceful ends on one
side. The roses in her cheeks were re
placed by pallid lilies, and a delicate rim
round the deep melancholy eyes, gave
token of recent weeping. Her flexible
figure was wasted aud attenuated, and
she sat, with downcast eyes,as though in
different, if not unconscious, of all that
took place around her. Nor did she
mark the approach of the great Prelate.
He stood before her, and sadly gave the
usual salutation. She scarcely glanced
at him, and slightly inclined her head.
A moment passed in silence, wheD, in a
verp low, distinct tone, he pronounced
her name. She started, as a frightened
fawn, and said:
“Who art thou that callest me by a
name I thought dead to me, henceforth ?”
“Caroline, my child,” answered the
great Prelate, “cotnmand yourself ! be
hold in me your father, yuor Bishop,
come to rescue you, to bear you hence.”
She looked at him, and in the recog
nition the gleam of hope, which for an
instant animated her countenance, gave
way to an expression of anguish, and
she fell, fainting, at his feet.
CHAPTER VI.
Moments so precious could not be lost
in her unconsciousness, and he advanced
with rapidity to a fountain, filled his tur
ban with drops of water, and, seating
her up, bathed her temples and brow. In
a few minutes she recovered her senses,
and, as soon as she could articulate and
move, she cast herself at his feet, and,
with arms wound round his knees, and
face uplifted in supplication, spoke in
passionate agitation, thus:
“Oh! my father, leave this place. In
the name of Him whom you taught me
to love, I beseech yon to go at once ! One
word—nay, one glance of suspicion from
| one of these guards, dispersed everywhere
over this garden, and yon are delivered
up to the most cruel torments and death.
Rescue for me is impossible; and, were
it even feasible, my life is not worth the
savinir. I would not accept it! my oDe
praver, my only hope—is death; and, my
father, it is very near me, for I am we k
and ill. Think no more of this imp «-
eible scheme for my re-cue; think only
of me when at prayer; then remember
the poor crushed soul, which is even now
passing awav. Fly now, my father! for
the love of God, leave me ere you a'.tract
one eye towards you !’’
“My child,” replied her beloved direc
tor, “sad alias been you fate yru eunuot
despair! God has sent ymi, ,n rue, a
No. 26.
