disposed young man, would gladly have consented if you had been the true offspring of Kwe’s house, and not a mere purchased brat. That was the true reason why they would not permit our marriage to be solemnised. And now, when you have heard all this, how can you doubt that you are the son of this worthy couple?—that this is the very room in which you were born?”
For some minutes not one of the party could speak. At last, Lien, with an effort, breaking the silence, said:
“We need not long remain in doubt upon this matter. There is a certain means of identification, by a peculiar mark my child had upon his body.”
On examination, the mark was found upon Yaou, and then Lien said:
“This day the Imperial Heaven and Queen-like Earth, taking compassion on our collected virtue, have brought us all together to complete our imperfect circle.”
Then all, with one accord, having bowed and thanked Heaven and Earth, Lien summoned the servants, and ordered them to make preparations for a grand feast. Four pigs and four sheep were killed in honour of the gods, and to furnish a repast for all the neighbours; before whom Lien acknowledged Yaou to be his legitimate son and heir, who, consequently, took from that time his original name of Sea-lou, or the Little-chamber, though he is still more generally known over all the great celestial, central, flowery empire as The Lost Child.
THE WRECK OF THE ALMA.
BY A PASSENGER.
On the afternoon of Friday the 10th of June, 1859, we were enjoying the kind and courteous hospitalities of the Brigadier-Commandant at his residence on one of the highest spots of the extinguished volcano now called Aden. We talked over the wonderful variety of comforts and conveniences which the facilities of modern communication have brought to that desolate crater from all regions of the world. Suddenly we saw smoke rising in the harbour from the chimney of the beautiful steamer Alma, which had brought us from Point de Galle in the Island of Ceylon; and while she took in coals for the continuation of her homeward voyage, had handed us over to the urbanities of our friends. We had understood she was not to start till Saturday’s daybreak—for superstition against a departure on a Friday is still not without its influence among naval men. It was supposed some new arrangement had been made, so we hurried on board. Not, however, on an unlucky Friday, but at sunrise on Saturday the good ship heaved her anchor, making for the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb, to dash and perish in the Red Sea on a coral reef on that anniversary Sabbath generally deemed so bright and auspicious—the gayest Sabbath of the year, Whitsunday.
The moon had just gone down, the night was perfectly serene, and the waves of the Arabian gulf tranquil as a lake in summer. It was three o’clock a.m., and except a few who remained on deck to escape from the intolerable heat below, we had retired to our cabins to seek that repose which is not easily found when the thermometer ranges at or above 90 degrees of Fahrenheit. No dream of danger molested us for a moment. The captain, it is true, had been confined to his cabin by an attack of erysipelas, and had not been visible for two or three days; but the chief officers were in constant communication with him. All had long experience of the Red Sea navigation, and we were provided with admirable charts pointing out every peril, and laying down the safe channels with perfect accuracy. Indeed, disasters have been very uncommon on this well-known and constantly traversed navigation, the highroad for steamers to and from India, China, and Australia, not to speak of the numerous steam-ships of war which are scarcely ever wanting in the great gulf which divides Asia from Africa, whose name is familiar to our earliest associations, connected as it is with some of the most startling and impressive events of biblical history. And yet there was real ground for anxiety. Excepting the officers, there were only four European sailors on board, the crew consisting of Lascars, who, in the sequel, exhibited both cowardice and treachery; for when the Alma struck they jumped into the water, swam to the neighbouring reef, abandoning ship and passengers to their fate, and were afterwards busy in breaking open and robbing the baggage which was saved from the wreck.
There were three fearful crashes, and in a few seconds the vessel heeled over, and floods of water rushed in at the port-holes. We heard the orders given to drive on—to go a-head—in the hope, no doubt, that the reef might be got over, but with fear that if a hole had been made in her bottom, her backing would have taken us into deep water, when she would have gone down perpendicularly, and all must have perished. Everybody rushed forth from their cabins. There were many screams and cries, especially from mothers who were seeking their children,—many supplications for deliverance, many prayers for forgiveness of sins, many commendations of souls to God. Those who were able, made their way to the door of the saloon and up the staircase to the sloping deck. But the rising of the waters soon closed that means of retreat. From the cabins on the port-side, which was under water, the passengers were rescued by those who were on the starboard side, which was high and nearly dry; but the slope of the deck made it difficult to maintain a footing. Planting our heels against anything that offered resistance, and holding on by whatever we could seize as a means of support, we watched the waters rising, rising, rising—extinguishing the lights as they rose, till we were left in utter darkness, waiting the moment when we should be overwhelmed, or, wholly exhausted, drop into the engulphing waves. We heard noise and tumult above. Once voices reached us, “Any ladies below?” We answered as loudly and as frequently as we were able—“Ladies, children, men!” but there was silence and no relief. Our little group consisted of six persons—three males, three females. We discussed our chances of redemption, and abandoned hope. We held each other’s hands, and the words,