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blood of the first race on the plains of Kipchak contaminated? Has he married the daughter of a citizen of Nishapoor?" "No," said the man, "she belongs to a family of rank; she is beautiful as the full moon, and has, besides, a rich dower; having been divorced in a fit of passion, by an ill-tempered wealthy old merchant, who was wholly unworthy of her, but who threatens to take this inestimable pearl from your highness's son, Omar Beg."

"Where is the old villain," said the chief," that dares to claim any one whom I protect?" and he struck his spear on the ground in a rage that made Hajee Salah tremble for his life; "but let me see and embrace my long lost boy." He went into the house, but soon returning, directed two of his finest led horses to be brought to the door, on one of which Omar was mounted, and on the other his bride: and away they rode at full speed.

Three men were left behind; two remained in the house, and the third guarded Hajee Salah, who stood trembling and holding the two horses, inwardly cursing himself and his agent for selecting a wild Turkuman as a convenient bridegroom to a beautiful Persian lady.

After a delay of some hours, the Turkumans followed their companions. The house at which this scene occurred had been so cautiously selected by Hajee Salah to avoid observation, that nobody observed what was passing. The moment he was relieved, he ran to the palace of the governor, calling aloud for justice. The governor had gone a-hunting and was not expected till night. When he returned, he was so fatigued that he could not be seen till the next day. Then so many proofs were required, and so many delays took place, that the Hajee began to suspect the ruler of the city was in league with the Turkuman chief. But when he afterwards learned that the whole was a contrivance; that Omar's sister was the wife of the governor, and that the parents of Maidee had been reconciled to the marriage, all hope of redress

vanished, and he immediately left Nishapoor amid the laughter of high and low, for all seemed equally delighted at what had happened to Hajee Salah, the cross-grained. His name has ever since been recorded in story, as an example of the fate which awaits age and ill temper, when they aspire to possess youth and beauty, without knowing how to appreciate and guard such blessings when they have obtained them.

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From Coleridge's Translation of "Wallenstein."

OH! never rudely will I blame his faith

In the might of stars and angels! 'Tis not merely
The human being's PRIDE that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;

Since likewise for the stricken heart of LOVE
This visible nature, and this common world,
Is all too narrow: yea a deeper import
Lurks in the legend told my infant years
Than lies upon that truth we live to learn.
For fable is Love's world, his house, his birth-place;
Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays, and talismans,
And spirits; and delightedly believes

Divinities, being himself divine.

The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,

The power, the beauty, and the majesty,

That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,

Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanished.
They live no longer in the faith of reason!
But still the heart doth need a language; still
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names.
And to yon starry world they now are gone,
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
With man as with their friend; and to the lover.
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
Shoot influence down; and even at this day
'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that's fair.

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AMIENS.

"What were ye born to be-
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.”—Herrick.

THERE are certainly few things so dismal as the aspect of a second-rate town in France; its gloomy barrier guarded by growling douaniers-its long, narrow, dirty streets, unbroken by any of those splendid magazines of fashion that are always to be met with in England, where so many people are congregated—its total want of public buildings, for these are all concentrated in the capital-its idle, ill-dressed, sluggish population, all bespeak it as the abode of ennui, inactivity, and listlessness. Even Amiens, the capital of the department of the Somme, is not free from the appearance of this provincial tristesse; and though, in days when diplomatists met within its walls, its mansions might have looked gay, and its streets lively, its present appearance but too well betokens that that gaiety must have been even more short-lived than the peace that was there concocted. There is one object in this city, however, that is well worthy the attention of every traveller-the Cathedral-a building whose exterior and interior architecture is justly entitled to all the encomiums that have been passed upon it. As a lover of the gothic style, I could have spent many hours in examining and delineating the numerous figures and devices which adorn the front of this ancient and magnificent pile, and might have got many proofs, if such were wanting, in support of the superior excellence of the architectural taste of the early ages, compared with the frippery of the present day. Modern gothic!-the thing is an absurdity, and yet England will not be convinced of it.

“N'est-ce pas magnifique?" said the valet de place, as we entered the splendid portal, and drew aside the

curtain that veiled the interior of the Cathedral from our sight. Magnifique" is indeed too meagre and hackneyed a term to express my feelings, thought I, as my eye ranged along the hundred elegant columns that support its lofty roof, and when at every turn it was arrested by the splendid chapels, pictures, and statuary, that ornamented its walls; the sun's rays, too, shone through the windows of stained glass, and cast such streams of variegated colouring upon the pavement, as to make the whole appear a piece of rich and beautiful mosaic.

With a pleasure in the contemplation of human art which I have rarely experienced, I wandered up and down the lengthened aisles of this splendid Cathedral, admiring the elegant form of a column or an arch, studying the sculptured history of a saint or martyr, or wondering at the exquisite workmanship of a marble altarpiece, or antique confessional. While thus occupied, I observed a person in the act of lighting the candles which stood in a chapel, around which the principal transactions of our Saviour were cut in basso-relievo, and other preparations making, that appeared to indicate some approaching religious ceremony. I accosted the sacristan— a man whose furrowed cheek and lyart locks bespoke him in the vale of years-and inquired for what purpose these preparations were making. "Ah! Monsieur," replied he, "'tis for the funeral of Madamoiselle de B., one of the loveliest girls of our city; she was her father's pride-his only child too; alas, le pauvre homme, he must be inconsolable!" I made farther inquiries, and found that Monsieur de B. had spent the better portion of his days in the camp, but had, after the termination of the fatal expedition to Moscow, been allowed to retire to the bosom of his family; and had, since that period, devoted his time and talents to the education of his daughter. “'Tis but a few days since I saw her assisting at the mass," continued the sacristan; "she was so gentle, so

unassuming, so kind, she gained the heart of every one. Seventeen years, Monsieur, is but a short term of human life; but we must submit to the will of heaven!" added he, wiping away a tear which stood in his eye.

At that moment, the door-curtain was drawn aside, and the melancholy procession slowly advanced into the body of the church. I instantly retired some distance from the mournful group, and placed myself in the shade of a column, so as to be unobserved by those who were assisting at the ceremonial. Around the coffin, over which was thrown a drapery of white silk, stood at least a dozen of young girls, clothed in white muslin, with veils which reached below their girdles, and who, as soon as the procession stopped, placed the lighted tapers which they bore in their hands upon the pall: close behind walked the afflicted father, in a garb of the deepest mourning, and surrounded by a numerous circle of friends of the family. The priest who headed the procession approached the altar, preparatory to the commencement of the service, but for some minutes there was a deep and solemn silence, broken only by the large bell, which tolled, at measured intervals, a sad requiem. The service then commenced: the hollow and lugubrious voice of the priest, reverberating through the vacant aisles, was answered by the chaunt of the choristers who encircled the lutrin, or accompanied by the deep thrilling notes of the organ, whose dying echo, melting into heaven, was a lively emblem of the departing spirit of her that was about to be entombed. As I heard the words "requiescat in pace," my eye turned to the father, who, at that moment, seemed unconscious of what was acting around him; he stood the monument of

"A grief too deep for tears,"

and appeared to be giving up the whole of his being to the past, since the future had no hope nor happiness reserved for him. The relatives now stood ready to sprinkle the holy water, as their last token of respect towards their departed friend, and I could distinctly hear

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