entertained, we turned all our attention, to the
weather and our ship.

The typhoon appeared to be working up in
a direction at right angles to our course, and
our object was to pass the track the centre of the
storm would take, before it, arrived at that point.
The laws of storms are now so clearly defined,
that one who runs may read, and we knew by
them that "eight points from the direction of
the wind would give us the bearing of the
centre." Consequently, if the wind drew round
so far as to be right abeam, the centre of the
circular storm, or typhoon, would be right ahead
of our course. As it was, the wind was aft,
though not steady, and, consequently, the centre
of the storm was abeam of us. Our plan was,
therefore, to run for it, and get ahead of the
centre before it passed our course, or else to
turn back altogether at once and let it go by.
As I said before, we had decided upon running.
It was all hands upon deck during the whole of
that night as we flew before the gale. The typhoon
had not yet broken on us in its full force, but the
sea had risen and towered over our stern in
immense waves. We still kept sail on the ship, and
were making, by our calculation,twelve or thirteen
knots an hour. At daylight we hoped to be near
our port, and anxiously did we consult the
barometer, and watch the veering wind through every
hour of that night. The first grey glimmer of day
was breaking, when there was a glad shout.

"An island on the starboard bow."

It was Chapel Island. We knew its peculiar
shape in a moment; we were running past the
entrance to Amoy as hard as we could go; and
if we had not seen the island, we should have had
to retrace our course. How joyfully did we
haul our ship up to the wind, though everything
cracked again, and the sea broke over our decks,
making us catch our breaths at the cold sousing!

The two small islands forming the entrance of
the inlet or arm of the sea in which Amoy lies
were visible ahead, the sea furiously breaking
over and over them. A steady hand at the
wheel, a good lookout ahead, and, with the
huge sea tearing up on the rocks within a few
yards of us on either side, we ran rapidly
through the narrow channel, and, in another
minute, were in smooth water. What became
of the kidnapped Chinese I could not make out.

THE OLD STATUE.

I

In the market place of Ypres, three hundred years ago,
A crumbling statue, old and rent by many a lightning blow,
Stood—sad and stern, and grim and blank, upon its mossy face.
The woes of many centuries were frozen in its face.

It was a Caesar some men said, and some said Charlemagne,
Yet no one knew when he it aped, began or ceased to reign,
Nor who it was, or what it was, could any rightly say,
For the date upon its pedestal was fretted quite away.

When blue and ghastly moonshine fell, severing shadows dark,
And stars above were shining out with many a diamond spark,
It used to cast its giant shade across the market square,
And through the darkness and the shine it fixed its stony stare.

Twas said that where its shadow fell, on a certain day and year,
An hour at least past midnight, when the moon was up and clear,
Near to that statue's mouldy base, deep hid beneath the ground,
A treasure vast of royal wealth, was certain to be found.

Slow round, as round a dial plate, its sharp dark shadow passed,
On fountain and cathedral roof by turns eclipse it cast;
Before it fled the pale blue light, chased as man's life by Death,
And deep you heard the great clock tick, like a sleeping giant's breath,

II

In that same market place there lived an alchemist of fame,
A lean and yellow dark eyed man, Hans Memling was his name,
In scarlet hood and blood red robe, in crimson vest and gown,
For twenty years, the moonlight through, he'd sat and watched the town.

Like one flame lit he used to peer between the mullions there,
As yonder stars shot blessed light through the clear midnight air;
When chess board chequered, black and white, part silver and part jet,
The city lay in light and shade, barred with the moonbeams' net.

When gable-ends and pinnacles, and twisted chimney stalks,
Rose thick around the market square, and its old cloistered walks,
When gurgoyles on the minster tower made faces at the moon,
And convent gardens were as bright as if it had been noon,—

Memling—the miser alchemist—then left his crimson vials,
His Arab books, his bottled toads, his sulphurous fiery trials,
His red-hot crucibles and dyes that turned from white to blue.
His silver trees that starry rose the crystal vases through.

His room was piled with ponderous tomes, thick ribbed and silver clasped,
The letters twined with crimson flowers, the covers golden hasped,
With dripping stills and furnaces, whose doors were smouldered black.
With maps of stars and charts of seas lined with untraversed track.