I. ON THE THRESHOLD.


MARCH 15, 1862.--On board the small Siamese steamer Chow Phya, in the
Gulf of Siam.

I rose before the sun, and ran on deck to catch an early glimpse of the
strange land we were nearing; and as I peered eagerly, not through mist
and haze, but straight into the clear, bright, many-tinted ether, there
came the first faint, tremulous blush of dawn, behind her rosy veil; and
presently the welcome face shines boldly out, glad, glorious, beautiful,
and aureoled with flaming hues of orange, fringed with amber and gold,
wherefrom flossy webs of color float wide through the sky, paling as
they go. A vision of comfort and gladness, that tropical March morning,
genial as a July dawn in my own less ardent clime; but the memory of two
round, tender arms, and two little dimpled hands, that so lately had
made themselves loving fetters round my neck, in the vain hope of
holding mamma fast, blinded my outlook; and as, with a nervous tremor
and a rude jerk, we came to anchor there, so with a shock and a tremor I
came to my hard realities.

The captain told us we must wait for the afternoon tide to carry us over
the bar. I lingered on deck, as long as I could dodge the fiery spears
that flashed through our tattered awning, and bear the bustle and the
boisterous jests of some circus people, our fellow-passengers, who came
by express invitation of the king to astonish and amuse the royal