In Macao

In Macao

The Project Gutenberg eBook, In Macao, by Charles A. Gunnison
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: In Macao
Author: Charles A. Gunnison

Release Date: June 22, 2006 [eBook #18658]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN MACAO***
E-text prepared by Martin Pettit and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/)

IN MACAO.
by
CHARLES A. GUNNISON.

Press of Commercial Publishing Co. 34 California St., S.F.

FRAU JULIE FISCHER.
geb. von Seckendorff-Gutend.
Die beifolgenden, widme ich Ihnen, als Beweis in welch' unvergesslicher Erinnerung, die von mir in Beyern verlebte Zeit, gehalten wird, und besonders die unvergleichlichen Tage welche ich im Rothem Schloss zu Obernzeen zubringen durfte, Tage welche zu den schoensten meines Lebens zaehlten, und nie aus meinem Herzen verwischt werden koennen.
Charles A. Gunnison.
San Francisco, Cal., Xmas, 1892.

California.
This is thy form, dear, native home of mine,-- A gold-net hammock swung from palm to pine, Moved by the breezes of the peaceful sea, And in the net, smiling so drowsily, My mother California, queen divine, Rests, while the poppy garlands her entwine.
In her warm arms, 'neath cloudless summer skies, As child I heard her bee-hummed lullabies, Saw her red malvas, blue nemophyl?, Pink manzanitas, deep-hued laurel tree, And what were marvels to my childish eyes, Her mariposas, (tethered butterflies).
What of the rich and wondrous foreign things Which each new tide to her in tribute brings! Although from olive, orange, fig, and vine, Her own fond children all their wealth consign, 'Tis Flora's gifts my royal mother sings, As, joined to palm and pine, her hammock swings.

In Macao.
A Story from the "Grasshopper's Library."
I was seated one pleasant day in the garden, which was given to the city of Macao by the Marcos family, near the grotto sacred to the poet Camoens, when a Portuguese priest came from among the wilderness of flowers and sat beside me. He spoke English with a pleasant accent and we read Bowring's effusion together, as it is engraved on the marble slab nearby. Scarcely had we finished, and the father was telling me of Goa in India, when my uncle Robert came from beneath the great banyan tree and stood before us. The father jumped to his feet, and throwing back his brown robe, rushed forward toward my uncle with a stilletto held ready for an upward stroke. Quickly my uncle drew a revolver and fired--and the father fell dead at my feet.
I
To those who have been in Southern Europe and have seen the towns along the Riviera, the first view of Macao, as the steamboat approaches from Hong Kong, gives the impression of having been suddenly transported to the sunny Mediterranean. Were it not for the colour of the water, and the Chinese junks, Macao would indeed be a perfect representation of any of those lovely spots, as she lies along her crescent bay, from Mount Nillau to Mount Charil, defended by the frowning forts of Sam Francisco and Our Lady of Bom Parto. Beautiful as this picture is, it was doubly so in the brilliant sunset colouring of a certain March day, as the steamer slowly came to her wharf and the passengers stepped ashore beneath the blue and white flag of Portugal, in this, her farthest eastern possession. The houses with their delicate washings of pink, blue, yellow or green, with white stucco ornaments, now golden in the light, had a warmth of colouring well set off by the dark foliage of camphor and banyan trees showing above the garden walls. The few passengers soon dispersed, in chairs or on foot, leaving but one of their number upon the wharf. He was apparently expecting some one to come for him, for he refused all offers of assistance from the coolies and seated himself just outside the gate. American, of medium height, brown haired and tanned by a tropical sun, Robert Adams was as good a specimen of Anglo Saxon youth as England herself could boast of. He was the last descendant of a New England family, which had preserved its purity for three centuries as unmixed with continental blood as though the three centuries had been passed in the quiet vales of Devon, instead of in the New World with its broken barriers.
For three years, after a successful college course, he had been in the only shipping house in Hong Kong which sickly American commerce of the day was able to support in the once flourishing China trade. A small fortune and a good salary, a constitution which even an Eastern summer could not break down, and above all, the heart of the girl he loved, were surely possessions which any king might