"I own the little recital affected me; and the proof she had given of her attachment made her still more valuable. If any man had not been successful in his search, she must have perished with hunger, or have become a prey to some wild beast of those parts."

DREADFUL EFFECTS OF JEALOUSY.

The jealously of the wife contributes frequently to make the husband inconstant. Whoever is suspicious, says a modern author, makes an invitation to treachery. For which reason a sensible woman, who was told that her husband made love to several pretty women, answered very discreetly, I little mind how my husband bestows his heart in the day, so that he brings it me home at night."

The poets have compared jealousy to a fury, with a pale and livid complexion, stern look, hell in her heart, pursued by remorse, abhorred by all nature, and hated by herself first. Gabrielle de Vergy, of an illustrious birth, and who lived in the time of the crusades, was the victim of this implacable fury. The amiable Gabrielle, brought up from her infancy with Raoul de Coucy, a young man of great hopes, had conceived for her the tenderest sentiments. Coucy, on his side, could not imagine a greater happiness than the pleasing assurance of spending the rest of his days with Gabrielle. But the parents of this young lady, who, undoubtedly, were never sensible of the sweets of an union formed by esteem and tender love, delivered her into the hands of Fayel, a cruel, barbarous, and jealous man. This savage made it a crime in her to have a heart of sensibility. In vain the unfortunate wife strove to calm the suspicions of her tyrant by the most discreet behaviour, and a due attention to all his injunctions; she could not avoid being consigned over to the horrors of a dark dungeon. Coucy, informed of the treatment of one so dear to him, and still dearer by reason of her sufferings, consents to remove at a distance; from the place of her habitation he does more; he conceives the generous design as going to seek death in battle against the Saracens; too happy if this death could appease Fayel's jealousy, and mitigate the sufferings of the unfortunate Gabrielle. He puts himself at the head of two hundred chosen cavaliers, and exerts prodigies of valour; but, as he was exposing himself to the blow that was to rob him of life, he soon found death over a heap of killed or wounded Saracens. Then perceiving his end approach, he calls his esquire, and, with a hand he scarce was able to stretch forth, gave him a letter which he had just written on his buckler. Do not lament my destiny, said he, rather lament the distress of her who could not move a barbarous husband to pity. Carry to that adorable object my heart and this letter, wherein I have endeavoured to mark out a few words. I trust to thy zeal for my service; and he expired pronouncing the dear name of Gabrielle. The squire, the better to acquit himself of his commission, disguises himself, and repairs to the environs of Fayel's castle, in order to espy out the moment of getting into it without being perceived. But this jealous man, who was always in motion and prying about, was the first to take notice of him. He instantly takes him for one of his rivals, thinks he knows him, and, stealing softly upon him with a poniard. He soon found it was Coucy's esquire, and, dreading all from such a rival, he hastens to rifle the faithful domestic. How great was the joy of his soul, in seeing the heart of him he was under such dismal apprehensions of; but when he had done

reading the lover's letter, a letter so full of tenderness, jealousy seized upon all his senses. It inspired him with the most horrid of projects. I willhave this heart, said he, so beloved by a perjured wife, presented to her as adish of meat. His orders were given. The fatal meal was served up. Gabrielle that day felt some unaccountable boding, and quaked with dread as she approached her husband. He presses and solicits her to eat; she yields to his entreaties. This dish, said he to her, with a cruelly mocking air, ought indeed to please thee, for it is the heart of thy lover. She immediately falls senseless to the ground; but her husband, whose revenge was not yet complete, endeavours to recover her. When she was come a little to herself, he commands her, with the greatest menaces, to read the letter he presented to her. Gabrielle receives it amazed and astonished, but she scarcely had perceived the characters drawn by the faithful Coucy, informing her that he died with joy for her sake, when a mortal cold overwhelmed all her senses. Fayel makes new efforts to call her back to life; but she was no more.

Jealousy gave occasion to a like disaster in the reign of Charles II. King of Spain. The Marquis d'Astorgas, of the house of Osorio, was enamoured of a young and beautiful woman. His wife, coming to hear of this intrigue, went forthwith, well escorted, to see her husband's mistress, and killed her with her own hands. She afterwards plucked her heart out of her, whichshe procured to be dressed in a ragoo, and served up to her husband. When he had eaten of it, she asked him if he liked it, and he answered, yes. I am not surprised at it, said she for it is the heart of thy mistress whom thou hast loved so much. With these words she took out of a drawer her head, still all over blood, and rolled it along the table, where the unhappy lover was sitting with several of his friends. His wife disappeared that instant, and took refuge in a convent, where she become mad through rage and jealousy.

The traveller Carre is witness of the following fact, which happened in 167, whilst he was at Donguery: Abdelkam, one of the principal lords of Visapour, and general of the troops of the kingdom, being tired of the profession of arms, had come to a resolution of spending his days in tranquillity, within the precinct of his seraglio, where his great riches had facilitated the means of his assembling together two hundred of the most beautiful women in the world. In this situation, he received orders to resume the command of an army against the prince Sevagi. When he saw himself obliged to set out, his jealousy was furiously kindled, that it inspired him with the blackest of all designs. He shut himself up for eight days amidst his women, and this time was a continued round of feasting and pleasures. The last day, to save himself, during his absence, all the uneasiness and anxieties of love, he had the throats of these two hundred women cut before his eyes. By the sequel of this history we learn with pleasure, that Visapour was soon after delivered of this monster by the very hands of his enemy. Sevagi, who made it a point of honour to join humanity to his heroic qualities, conceived so great a detestation of this abominable murderer, that he dreaded to tarnish his reputation, by exposing himself to the chance of arms with him: he therefore proposed to him a conference, under the pretext of accommodation. Abdelkam excepted the offer. They were to proceed both, without attendance, between the two armies. When they were near enough to one another, Sevagi drew his poniard, and, availing himself of his enemy's surprise, stabbed him in the heart, reproaching him with his crime, and declaring, that he who had violated the laws of nature deserved to be excluded a right to the law of nations.

THE TREACHEROUS FATHER.

THE following entertaining narrative is translated from the Arabic of Abjaaib Mouaser, an Eastern Historian.

A merchant, by name Kebal, had married a young, rich and amiable wife. Though the Mahommedan law authorises polygamy, this imperious wife would divide neither the heart nor bed of her husband. Kebal, of few aspiring views, having subjected himself to the matrimonial yoke, contracted an habitual dread of his wife, to whom he was indebted for his fortune; and his timidity induced him even to renounce, in her favor, the privilege allowed him by the law, having sworn to her an inviolable fidelity. At a distance from his wife, he soon forgot the oath and protestations he had made to her.

The business of his traffic having obliged him to take a journey, he was smitten with the charms of a young slave, whom he purchased for five hundred sequins. At nine months end the slave brought forth a child, whose birth, far from giving joy to the father, filled him with terrible apprehensions.

Kebal, who wanted to keep peace at home, made no difficulty of securing it by a crime. His wife, whom he had forgot in the heat of tumultuous passion, then occurred to his mind, and the fear of a jealous woman made him divest himself of every sentiment of humanity. He began by sacrificing to his quiet the unfortunate object of his amours. After destroying the mother, the same fate was determined upon for the son; but the voice of nature made itself to be heard within him, in spite of his horrid purpose, and stopped short his arm. To keep himself from shedding is own blood, he at length thought it advisable, to take the child with him in a desert, persuaded that the innocent victim would soon perish in it. But Providence, that watched over the preservation of his life, conducted a shepherd to the place where he was exposed. His beauty, his cries, his forlorn state, moved the heart of the poor shepherd to pity his distress, and he carried him to his

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hut. His wife, as compassionate as himself, very willingly took upon her the care of the child, and assigned him a she-goat for his wet-nurse. He was already four years old, when Kebal on a journey halted in the village where this shepherd lived, and took up his lodging with him. He took notice of his son, whom he was far from knowing; but whether he was struck with the child's beauty, or whether nature spoke to him in his favour, he felt strong emotions at the sight of him, and asked the shepherd if he was his father.

How great was Kebal's surprise, when the shepherd related to him how he had found the child! it was his own son; he could not help knowing him to be such by the circumstances of time and place; but to the sympathy that first affected him soon succeeded sentiments of violent hatred: yet, dissembling, he pretended that the child's charms were very engaging to him, and pressed the shepherd to sell him, offering fifty sequins for him.

The shepherd's poverty, his friendship for the child, and the certainty of his being more happy in the hands of a rich man, than his own, induced him to consent to the proposal. He was far from suspecting the design that had been already meditated against him.

Kebal had him no sooner at his disposal, than he hurried away and took him to the sea shore. There the beauty of this young child, his innocence, his tender endearments, his cries, his tears, nothing could bend the atrocious soul of Kebal. He seizes his son, sews him up in a bag of leather, and casts him into the sea, sure that now he would not escape death. But propitious heaven had otherwise ordered it. The bag came immediately into the nets of a fisherman, who fortunately hauled him out that very instant.

The astonished fisherman opens the bag, and seeing in it a child, who still could breathe a little, suspended it by the feet, and, after bringing it to life, carried it to his cottage. Kebal's son was destined to find every where sensible hearts, except that of his barbarous father.

The fisherman brought him up in his profession, and the lad distinguished himself in it by equal dexterity and intrepidity. He was already arrived at the age of fifteen years, when Kebal, who took frequent journeys to promote the concerns of his commerce passed through the town where the young man lived. He met him with the fisherman that had saved his life, and both were loaded with fish, which they sold about the streets. The young man's pleasing aspect attracted Kebal's attention, and to have an opportunity of knowing who he was, he bought some of the fisherman's fish. Afterwards asking him if he that followed was his son, the fisherman answered that he was not his father, and related to him in what manner he found him in his nets sown up in a bag.

Kebal, knowing him to be his son, could not imagine he had escaped a death which he thought to be inevitable. Enraged at seeing the ill success of so many crimes, he resolved to concert better his measures. He offered five hundred sequins to the fisherman, as purchase-money for his servant; and the bargain was soon concluded.

Kebal, without making himself known to his son, kept him to do business for him as his slave. His sweet temper, his fidelity, nothing could touch that cruel father, who was still more and more bent on his destruction.

Two years had now elapsed since his son had served him with an unexampled zeal, when he put into his hands a sealed up letter." Set out, said he to him, for Bagdad; you will there find my daughter, and deliver to her this letter; I recommend you to her care. Remain with her till my return; I shall soon follow you."

The young man obeyed Kebal, and immediately went on his way. Arrived at Bagdad, he enquired after his master's house, and knocked at the door of that which was shewn him to be his. Kebal's daughter chanced to open it, and saw a young man more beautiful than love itself, that delivered to her a letter on the part of her father. Impatient, she opens it; but how great was the horror she was seized with in reading these words: "The bearer of this letter is my greatest enemy; I send him to you that you may procure him to be assassinated; I require from you this proof of your tenderness."

Kebal's daughter, far from resembling her father, was remarkable for singleness of heart, and a very humane disposition. Considering the letter-carrier, she could not help loving him; and love suggested to her a means of saving the life of him, who in a moment was become so dear to her; and of seeking with him an union that was to last for life. Having ordered the young man to wait for a short while, she wrote, counterfeiting her father's hand-writing, another letter conceived in these words: "He, who shall deliver to you this letter is dearer to me than my own son could be; consider him as myself; confide to him the management of all my business, and see him married directly to my daughter Melahie."

Having wrote this letter, she sealed it. Stepping afterwards into the room where she had left the young man: "You are mistaken, said she, the letter you gave me was for my mother; I will shew you to her apartment." Young Kebal presented to the mother, who having read it, not doubting it was from her husband, executed the orders he had given her, and had the young man married to her daughter.

In the mean time, Kebal having settled all his business he had to transact, set out on his return to Bagdad. Nothing could equal his astonishment when coming home, he found his son quite alive and joyous. His surprise was still greater when he learned that he was become his son-in-law. All these events appeared to him incredible: but the fear of his discovering his iniquities made him loth to dissemble, and disguise, under the appearances of friendship, the mortal hatred he still bore his innocent son. Melahie, his daughter was not the dupe of this deceitful tranquillity. Her tenderness, alarmed for the safety of a dear husband, made her pry into every device and design of her father.

Kebal, sometime after his arrival, gave a sheep to his domestics, with several pitchers of wine. "Make merry," said he, "this night, and celebrate my happy return into my country; but I require of you the doing me a good piece of service. A secret enemy has a design on my life; this night I will inveigle him into my house; about the fourth hour of the night he will go down the stairs leading from my apartment; as soon as ye hear him, stab him to death in the dark."

At the fixed hour, Kebal desired his son to go into the yard where his domestics were, and to bring one of them to him. He was just going down the fatal stairs, when his wife, who had strong suspicion of something intended against him, stopped and beseeched him not to execute a commission in which she perceived some mystery; and, so saying, she pulled him along with her. In the mean time Kebal was agitated by a diversity of passions. Half an hour was gone without his having any intelligence of the success of his perfidy; and, having become impatient to know in person if his domestics had gratified his revenge, he passed quickly down the stairs, those who were charged to execute his orders, and who till then had heard no one stir, not doubting but it was their victim, fell upon and massacred him in the dark. Such was the well merited end of this barbarous father. He, to whom he had given life, and