What passed through William Wakeham’s mind at that tremendous time no tongue can ever tell. He dearly loved life; his pulse beat in the full vigour of sturdy health; he had learned but little of that hope whose fulfilment “passeth all understanding;” he had never read how the Roman or the Greek sought death in a good cause, and gave their names to brighten history’s page, and gain what in our vain human talk is immortality. But that Great Being whose power and love had spoken to him in the bright stars and pleasant fields, had planted in the rude miner’s breast a good and gallant heart, and in that time of trial he did as brave a deed as ever poet sang. “Good-by, John—look to poor Polly!” One grasp of his brother’s hand, and he leaped from the stage down into the darksome pit.
Now the windlass winds freely up: there is hope for the one left; but the match burns quickly too, and writhes and flashes close down to the charge. Lay on stoutly! lay on!—strain every nerve, weak boy!—on every pull is the chance of a human life! John Short reaches the mouth of the shaft in safety; but before he springs out on the ground he turns one look below. His brother lay motionless on the bottom on one side of the rich vein of metal; at the other, the terrible match blazed up just as it reached the charge. Senseless with terror, he fell on his face at the pit’s mouth, and the next moment up burst the mine, shooting the rent rock and the heavy clay into the air above.
When John Short recovered himself from his stupor, he looked down the gloomy hole with hopeless agony, from whence the heavy sulphurous smoke of the powder still ascended; and as he wrung his hands he cried, “Oh! poor Bill, dear boy, would that I had been there instead of you!” But stop—surely that is a voice—listen closer—yes—God of mercy! he is alive still. Up from the bowels of the earth comes that cheery, hearty voice, not a tone the worse.
How my heart warms as I tell this tale! Would that words came now at my desire to stir up the spirit to love and admiration! Gallant William Wakeham—noble child of nature—chivalrous boor—hero unstained by slaughter! Were there in the sight of the Omnipotent aught of glory in any human action, surely your brave deed would shine before him in a brighter light than “the sun of Austerlitz” shed upon the bloody field where the power of an empire was trampled in the dust.
Down went the stage,—up came Bill, blackened and bruised a little to be sure, but not to signify a jot; he had struck his head in falling against the side of the shaft and was stunned by the blow. It so happened, by one of those wonderful contingencies which sometimes occur when, in human eyes, escape seems impossible, that he fell in a corner protected by the tough metallic vein which projected a little above the level of the bottom. The explosion bent this by its force, instead of shattering it like the surrounding rock, and turned the ledge over him. This in a great measure defended him from the stones which fell back again into the mine. The shock aroused him from the stunning effect of the blow which he had received in falling, and he shouted heartily, “All right, John! all right!”
His reward soon came—Polly and the children arrived safe and well. When she wept with joy and thanked him in her own simple way for having saved her husband for her, he was so happy in their happiness that he would readily have jumped into the bursting mine again, rather than they should be parted any more. When our narrator, the mining agent, left Peru, the brothers were preparing to return to England; they had got on well enough, and had saved sufficient money to enable them to stock a little farm, near the village in Cornwall where they were born.
By the time this long story was told, it was past the usual hour of going to our berths; but I am ashamed to say that several of our party had already taken a large instalment of their night’s rest, and knew no more about our friend William Wakeham than of the man in the moon.
THE DOG OF ALCIBIADES.
In Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades the following passage occurs:—
“Alcibiades had a dog of an uncommon size and beauty, which cost him seventy minæ, and yet his tail, which was his principal ornament, he caused to be cut off. Some of his acquaintance found great fault with his acting so strangely, and told him that all Athens rang with the story of his foolish treatment of the dog. At which he laughed, and said, ‘This is the very thing I wanted; for I would have the Athenians talk of this, lest they should find something worse to say of me.’”