bearding the lion in his den.

steam has pretty well subdued time. fifty years ago it was a mighty feat to “put a circle round the globe.” now-a-days a “cook”—by no means a captain—will take or send you round it in “a few weeks.”

romantic reader, don’t despair! by such means romance has undoubtedly been affected in some degree, but let not that grieve thee! romance has by no means been taken out of the world; nor has it been, to use an unromantic phrase, reduced in quantity or quality. human inventions and appliances alter the aspects of romance, and transfer its influences, but they cannot destroy a creator’s gift to the human race. they have, indeed, taken the romance out of some things which were once romantic, but that is simply because they have made such things familiar and commonplace. they have not yet touched other things which still remain in the hallowed region of romance. romance is a region. things crowd out of it, but other things crowd into it. the romantic soul dwells perpetually in it, and while, perhaps with regret, it recognises the fact that many things depart from that region, it also observes, with pleasure, that many things enter into it, and that the entrances are more numerous than the exits. the philosophico-romantic spirit will admit all this and be grateful. the unphilosophico-romantic spirit will not quite see through it, and may, perchance, be perplexed. but be of good cheer. have faith! do not let the matter-of-fact “steam-engine,” and the “telegraph,” and the “post-office,” rob thee of thy joys. they have somewhat modified the flow of the river of romance, but they have not touched its fountain-head,—and never can.

why, what is romance? despite the teachings of the dictionaries—which often give us the original and obsolete meaning of words—we maintain that romance signifies the human soul’s aspirations after the high, and the grand, and the good. in its fallen condition the poor soul undoubtedly makes wondrous mistakes in its romantic strainings, but these mistakes are comparatively seldom on the side of exaggeration. our dictionary says that romance is extravagance—a fiction which passes beyond the limits of real life. now, we maintain that no one—not even the most romantic of individuals—ever comes up to real life. we have been a child—at least we incline to that belief—and we have been, like other children, in the habit of romancing, as it is called, that is, according to dictionaries, passing “beyond the limits of real life” into “extravagance.” we are now a man—it is to be hoped—have travelled far and seen much and yet we can say conscientiously that the wildest fancies of our most romantic moods in childhood have been immeasurably surpassed by the grand realities of actual life! what are the most brilliant fancies of a child or of a mere ignorant “romancer,” compared to the amazing visions of the arctic regions or the high alps, which we have seen? “fictions” and “extravagance”! all our wildest sallies are but intravagance and feeble fancy compared with the sublimity of fact. no doubt there are men and women gifted with the power of burlesquing reality, and thus, not going beyond its limits, but causing much dust and confusion within its limits by the exaggeration and falsification of individual facts. this, however, is not romance. we stand up for romance as being the bright staircase that leads childhood to reality, and culminates at last in that vision which the eye of man hath not yet seen nor his mind conceived; a vision which transcends all romance is itself the greatest of all realities, and is “laid up for the people of god.”

we return from this divergence to the point which led to it—the power of steam to subdue time. no doubt it was unromantic enough to be pushed, propelled, thrust, willing or not willing, against, or with, wind and tide, so that you could gauge your distance run—and to be run—almost to a foot; but it was very satisfactory, nevertheless, especially to those whose hearts were far in advance of their vessel, and it was more than satisfactory when at the end of their voyage of a few days they found themselves gliding swiftly, almost noiselessly, up the windings of a quiet river whose picturesque scenery, romantic vistas, and beautiful reflections might have marked it the entrance to a paradise instead of a human pandemonium.

it was very early when the gun-boat entered the stream. the mists of morning still prevailed, and rendered all nature fairy-like. weird-looking mangrove bushes rose on their leg-like roots from the water, as if independent of soil. vigorous parasites and creepers strove to strangle the larger trees, but strove in vain. thick jungle concealed wealth of feathered, insect, and reptile life, including the reptile man, and sundry notes of warning told that these were awaking to their daily toil—the lower animals to fulfil the ends of their being, the higher animal to violate some of the most blessed laws of his creator. gradually the sun rose and dispelled the mists, while it warmed everything into strong vitality. as they passed up, clouds of water-fowl rose whirring from their lairs, and luxuriant growth of weeds threatened to obstruct the progress of the steamer.

“come here, policeman,” said the captain to the native functionary; “how far above this, did you say, is the nest of the vipers?”

“’bout tree mile.”

“humph!” ejaculated the captain, turning to berrington, who had come on deck at the moment. “i never went higher up the river than this point, for, just ahead, there are reeds enough to stop the screw of a three thousand ton ship, but if you’ll get your diving-dresses ready i’ll try it. it would be much better to bring our big guns to bear on them than to attack in boats.”

“i’ll have ’em ready directly,” said edgar. “perhaps we’d better stop the engines now.”

“just so; stop them.”

the engines were stopped, and the gun-boat glided slowly over the still water until it came to rest on its own inverted image.

meanwhile the air-pump was rigged, and joe baldwin put on his dress, to the great interest and no little surprise of the malay crew.

“ready, sir,” said edgar, when joe sat costumed, with the helmet at his side and his friends rooney and maxwell at the pumps.

“go ahead, then—full steam,” said the captain.

just in front of the vessel the river was impeded quite across by a dense growth of rank reeds and sedges; a little further on there was clear water. into this the gun-boat plunged under full steam.

as was expected, the screw soon became choked, and finally stopped. had the pirates expected this they would probably have made a vigorous attack just then. but the danger, being so obvious, had never before been incurred, and was therefore not prepared for or taken advantage of by the pirates. nevertheless the captain was ready for them if they had attacked. every man was at his station armed to the teeth.

the moment the boat began to work heavily joe’s helmet was put on, and when she came to a stand he went over the stern by means of a rope-ladder prepared for the purpose.

“be as active as you can, joe. got everything you want?” said edgar, taking up the bull’s-eye.

“all right, sir,” said joe.

“pump away,” cried edgar, looking over his shoulder.

next moment joe was under water, and the malays, with glaring eyes and open mouths, were gazing at the confusion of air-bubbles that arose from him continually. from their looks it seemed as though some of them fancied the whole affair to be a new species of torture invented by their captain.

joe carried a small hatchet in his girdle and a long sharp knife in his hand. with these he attacked the reeds and weeds, and in ten minutes or less had set the screw free. he soon reappeared on the rope-ladder, and edgar, who had been attending to his lines, removed the bull’s-eye.

“what now, joe?” he asked.

“all clear,” said joe, coming inboard.

“what! done it already?”

“ay; steam ahead when you like, sir.”

the order was given at once. the assistant engineer put on full steam, and the gun-boat, crashing through the remaining obstruction, floated into the comparatively clear water beyond. the screw had been again partially fouled, of course, but ten minutes more of our diver’s knife and axe set it free, and the vessel proceeded on her way.

scouts from the pirate-camp had been watching the gun-boat, for they had counted on nothing worse than an attack by boats, which, strong in numbers, they could easily have repelled. great therefore was the consternation when these scouts ran in and reported that the vessel had cleared the obstructions by some miraculous power which they could not explain or understand, and was now advancing on them under full steam.

while the operations we have described were being carried out on board the gun-boat, in the pirate village poor mr hazlit was seated on a stump outside a rude hut made chiefly of bamboos and palm leaves. he wore only his trousers and shirt, both sadly torn—one of the pirates having taken a fancy to his coat and vest, the former of which he wore round his loins with his legs thrust through the sleeves. the captive merchant sat with his face buried in his hands and bowed on his knees.

inside the hut sat aileen with poor miss pritty resting on her bosom. miss pritty was of a tender confiding nature, and felt it absolutely necessary to rest on somebody’s bosom. she would rather have used a cat’s or dog’s than none. aileen, being affectionate and sympathetic, had no objection. nevertheless, not being altogether of angelic extraction, she was a little put out by the constant tremors of her friend.

“come, dear, don’t shudder so fearfully,” she said, in a half coaxing half remonstrative tone.

“is he gone?” asked miss pritty in a feeble voice, with her eyes tight shut.

she referred to a half-naked warrior who had entered the hut, had half shut his great eyes, and had displayed a huge cavern of red gum and white teeth in an irresistible smile at the woe-begone aspect of miss pritty. he had then silently taken his departure.

“gone,” repeated aileen, rather sharply; “of course he is, and if he were not, what then? sure his being dark and rather lightly clothed is not calculated to shock you so much.”

“aileen!” exclaimed miss pritty, raising her head suddenly, and gazing with anxiety into the face of her friend; “has our short residence among these wretches begun to remove that delicacy of mind and sentiment for which i always admired you?”

“no,” returned aileen, firmly, “but your excessive alarms may have done something towards that end. nay, forgive me, dear,” she added, gently, as miss pritty’s head sank again on her shoulder, with a sob, “i did not mean to hurt your feelings, but really, if you only think of it, our present position demands the utmost resolution, caution, and fortitude of which we are capable; and you know, love, that this shuddering at trifles and imagining of improbabilities will tend to unfit you for action when the time arrives, as it surely will sooner or later, for my father has taken the wisest steps for our deliverance, and, besides, a greater than my father watches over us.”

“that is true, dear,” assented miss pritty, with a tender look. “now you speak like your old self; but you must not blame me for being so foolish. indeed, i know that i am, but, then, have not my worst fears been realised? are we not in the hands—actually in the hands—of pirates—real pirates, buccaneers—ugh!”

again the poor lady drooped her head and shuddered.

“your worst fears may have been realised,” said aileen; “but we have certainly not experienced the worst that might have happened. on the contrary, we have been remarkably well treated—what do you say? fed on rats and roast puppies! well, the things they send us may be such, for they resemble these creatures as much as anything else, but they are well cooked and very nice, you must allow, and—”

at that moment aileen’s tongue was suddenly arrested, and, figuratively speaking, miss pritty’s blood curdled in her veins and her heart ceased to beat, for, without an instant’s warning, the woods resounded with a terrific salvo of artillery; grape and canister shot came tearing, hissing, and crashing through the trees, and fierce yells, mingled with fiend-like shrieks, rent the air.

both ladies sat as if transfixed—pale, mute, and motionless. next moment mr hazlit sprang into the hut, glaring with excitement, while a stream of blood trickled from a slight wound in his forehead.

uttering a yell, no whit inferior to that of the fiercest pirate near him, and following it up with a fit of savage laughter that was quite appalling, the once dignified and self-possessed merchant rolled his eyes round the hut as if in search of something. suddenly espying a heavy pole, or species of war-club, which lay in a corner, he seized it and whirled it round his head as if he had been trained to such arms from childhood.

just then a second salvo shook the very earth. mr hazlit sprang out of the hut, shouted, “to the rescue! aileen, to the rescue!” in the voice of a stentor, plunged wildly into a forest-path, and disappeared almost before the horrified ladies could form a guess as to his intentions.