at Basle ranks first in its amount of agency), the General Baptist Society, the Wesleyan Society, the Irish Presbyterian Church, and others. To these we must add the six Bible and Tract Societies of England and America. It is a most gratifying fact, that, notwithstanding the numerous and sometimes bitter controversies which occur among Christians of the western world, their missionary messengers in the East Indies exhibit a very large amount of practical and efficient Christian union. While occupying stations apart from each other, and thus avoiding occasion of mutual interference with each other's plans, in numberless instances the labourers of different societies cultivate each other's acquaintance, and preach together to the heathen. Almost all use the same versions of the Bible; and the Christian tracts and books, written by one missionary, become the common property of all others. At Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay, the missionaries of all societies are accustomed to meet monthly for mutual conference and united prayer. In these meetings, all general questions relating to the more efficient conduct of missionary operations, to common difficulties and common success, are brought forward and discussed, while frequent occasions are furnished in private for cultivating personal friendships of the closest kind. Of the exceeding value of such union, as well as of its duty, scarcely too high an estimate can be made. In a land so given up to all moral abominations as India is, never could the prince of this world' obtain a greater victory over the preachers of the cross, than by inducing them on trivial grounds to turn their arms against each other. And never can the agents of Christ's church so justly hope for a sure triumph, as when they obey their Master's command, in striving, with common efforts, with undivided affection and united prayers, for the extension of his kingdom, and the conversion of perishing souls. DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. Of wailing winds and naked woods, And from the shrub the jay, And now when comes the calm mild day, To call the squirrel and the bee From out their winter home; The south wind searches for the flowers And then I think of one who in Her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up, In the cold moist earth we laid her, W. C. BRYANT. A TENTH BUNDLE OF BOOKS. BY GEORGE GILFILLAN. A DIALOGUE. SCENE-A Study in a Manse-a Library opposite the fireplacepamphlets, letters, books, and MSS. crowding the table. Time, five afternoon. The writer solus, sitting at an old desk. W.-Well, this is fearful! there are some twenty or thirty books waiting for dissection, and nothing yet done; and, worse still, some dozen letters unopened from angry authors, as I verily suppose. Let me try one or two of them.—[ Approaches the table gingerly, as if nearing a nest of vipers; lifts up one, looks at it all around, takes a long breath, and at last with an air of heroism opens it.]-Ha! what have I here? Is it possible? Anonymous! 'Dear Sir,-Your account of Jameson of Methven is not nearly so good as I could have done. I know a great deal more of him than you or anybody else. You have as completely mistaken his character as Mr Hogg's limner has misrepresented the features of his heavenly countenance.-Yours, Who can this be? Not P. of N.; he is too much of a gentleman to send an anonymous letter. Not any of the amiable friends of J.; no-they have thanked me for my tribute. Pshaw! some scoundrel.-[Flings the letter into the fire; in two moments it is as black as its writer's heart, and in two more as invisible as his name. Rubs his brow, and resumes his task.]-Here's another. Postage, I declare, unpaid. 'Sir,-You are the most partial writer of the age. You have set yourself (I suppose for a consideration) to puff such men as Sydney Yendys, A. Smith, and Dr Eadie of Glasgow, not to speak of your old patron, Aird; and have spued out your paltry spite at Dickens, Thackeray, Macaulay, Lord John Russell, Dr Candlish, George Dawson, and all the other really great men of the age. your own fund of venom runs dry, you notoriously draw upon that of your amiable friend P. L., knowing that his is inexhaustible. Let me tell you both to beware, lest, &c., &c., &c.—Yours, in enmity, J. B.' And when BB! B! who can that creature be? Oh! I remember, a blockhead whose bad poetry I cut up, two years ago, in a 'Bundle.' He is now due me twopence.-[Rings the bell violently.-Enter servant. ]- Call little Willy.'[Enter a fine boy of six, with a noble towering curly head.] 'Here, Willy, take this, and make a paper kite of it.' [Exit Willy, exulting, and saying, 'Thank you, uncle.''Tis the only chance that this fellow B. has of getting anything of his exalted, unless it be his neck at haribee.'-A third! It seems to have a queer kind of smell! big, too! There must be a pamphlet enclosed. Yes, there is. A Review of the Bards of the Bible,' reprinted from the North American Review." Oh, I've seen that stupidest of all'Old Granny's' effusions already (Emerson always calls that Review 'Old Granny'). She has lost all her teeth, poor body; and her tongue is not very clean. I fear the worst for her. But, stay! here are some words on the outside: In acknowledgment of the articles on George Dawson and K. B.'s poems, from J. R. That's rich, rather! This J. R. is surely a very silly fellow, first of all to republish such an asinine article, and secondly so openly to declare the malignity and revenge of the motive. Verily he must be a 'thrice double ass,' as Shakspere has it. But I must make shorter work, else I'll never get on. Why-hum-hum -hum-here are two letters from one place in England, requesting my opinion on the respective merits of Coleridge and Byron, with a view to a most interesting debate on the subject, to come off on such a night at such a literary society.' Why, there's stuff in one of my correspondents at least! I'll probably scrawl him off a few remarks on old S. T. C. Here's, next, a man asking if it be true that I am writing an elaborate commentary on the Revelation. What next!!! Here's a most laconic scribe: 'Why have you quarrelled with the accomplished editor of the Glasgow Examiner ?' that's all! Another warns me not to praise poor A. Smith too much, else you'll spoil the lad for life.'-What, in the name of horror, is here ?- 'D, Wales. 'Dear Sir,-As you have been so kind as to overlook, and so far to commend, the first two cantos of my epic, 'Ambrosio Luculento, or the Amiable Murderer,' I beg leave respectfully to request that you will take the trouble of overhauling, in the intervals of your invaluable time, the remaining cantos, which I am certain are not inferior to the others. I am emboldened to this, by knowing that to your kindly perspicacity were submitted, ere publication, the magnificent measures of the Roman,' and the delightful and melting strains of a 'Life Drama.' If you could also, in your great kindness, procure the publication of the poem, it would further oblige, your ardent admirer, O. T.' Impudent dog!-[Enter servant with letters. ]-Ha! Post time already! What's here? Such a bulk! What! 'Ambrosio Luculento, or the Amiable Murderer; an Epic Poem in twenty-four cantos, with Preface, Notes, and an Appendix. Dedicated to the Editor of the Athenæum.' Pages MS. 2006.'-[To the servant.]—'What are you waiting for?''Postage, sir; it is 3s. 6d.'-[Flings it in a fit of fury-knocks the door to-dashes five or six of the remaining letters into the fire-tries to set to work to the Bundle, but soon throws down the pen.]-I really wish some one would come in. I have jaded myself so much with Delta' and the Scottish Covenanters' for the AntiState Church people in London-besides fifty other things, great and small-that I can't write a stroke.-[A tremendous yawn, in reply to which the door opens-Enter N., X., and E.] i-Capital! Gentlemen, how are you all to-night? I was just falling asleep. X. What! over so many, and such (I presume) brilliant books? W.-Books are often the greatest soporifies in nature. Sheil was so sharp that he seldom slept at night till he had the last bad book beside him. Shelley extracted morphia (at that I wonder) from the Excursion.' N. Did you ever try the occasions. W.-No! Did you? Bards of the Bible' on such X. He never read it. Most extraordinary! W. I am terribly bored at present, not with bad books so much, as with a multiplicity of the most miscellaneous articles of the sort-some excellent, some middling, and a great class of them nearly nondescript. · N.-There are general complaints that your Bundles' are falling off. W.-Why, mediocre books create mediocre reviews. N.-What a flood of mediocrity must have entered this study of late! W-Especially within these last two minutes! X.-Some people say, moreover, that you never read the books you criticise. W.-A calumny. Don't you, N., conceal any sarcasm against me in any of your books (when they appear), under the vain hope that it may pass unnoticed in the centre of an uncut page. E-I cut up your volumes generally for you. W.-A thousand thanks. The use of the paper-cutter is a luxury to an idle man, but a terrible bore to one who has his hands full. X.-Have you read Cockburn's 'Jeffrey ?' W.-Yes, and cannot agree in the praise which has been lavished on it. It is the worst written book I ever read. A writer in the Eclectic,' who seems to have some notion of the thing, says it would not be graceful to point out its mistakes. That is, you walk along Prince's Street, you see a gentleman whose coat has been torn, and, saying to yourself it would not be graceful to apprize him of such a vulgar accident, you pass forward, and allow the poor fellow to go on amid a general grin till he reaches the North Bridge. I say that to review a book and not to point out its blemishes, is disgracefully dishonest. N.-Cockburn is a great Whig, and I don't wonder that a Whig or Radical should fail to write the King's English. E.-Most extraordinary! X.-Bad, you should have added. W.-I have some thoughts of writing a paper on Puns. There are very few good ones. One of the best I remember was from Alexander Logan. Have you heard it? Omnes.-No. W.-Logan was crossing the bridges one day with Dr J. B. They met a beggar boy with a fine lofty forehead. What a tower,' quoth B. Rather, I should say, a fort-o-lice,' replies Logan. It was a pun that might make a man immortal. N.-Pity, at that rate, that you had not perpetrated it. It had given you a chance. W. You think you have said cleverer things yourself; but you are rarely clever without approaching the profane. N.-I never admitted Emerson to my pulpit. W.-Not for that special offence. But I have certainly modified my view of Emerson. He is not a great, sincere, powerful spirit. He is at best an ingenious, highly cultured, musical nature. His essays are small elegant lyrics; they have no epic power, and their profundity is partly pretence and partly plagiarism. There is a smallness and a cringing insincerity about the man. He has at times the eye of a basilisk. His egotism, although varnished over by apparent modesty, is enormous. reminds me of a poor mad woman I visited once. She said, 'Sir, there's more sense in this head of mine than in all the rest of the world.' She recovered from her delusion. I hope Emerson yet will. 6 He [N., rising and going to the bookcase, takes down the Second Gallery,' and is beginning to read the paper on Emerson in it.] W.-Stop! stop! who is bound always to have the same opinion? You, N., for instance, have ten opinions of one book or man in the course of a week. By the way, De Quincey is worth a thousand Emersons, for this, among many other reasons-he is a believer in the peculiar claims and divine origin of Christianity; whereas Emerson has more than once personally insulted the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. De Quincey's style, too, has far greater breadth, swell, and epic magnificence. Emerson's style is ill of asthma, and his pants up the hill of supposed Truth are not pleasing to hear. Iland me, if you please, that pamphlet. Which? E. W. That on 'Australia,' by Joseph Robert Morrison, Esq. Tis, I am free to say, a very well written, able, and seasonable production. His great object is to advo cate family emigration to that golden land; and this he does in a style showing intimate acquaintance with the statistics, the prospects, and the present condition both of Britain and Australia. The pamphlet speedily reached a second edition, and is, I trust, destined to many more. Mr Morrison is a Scotchman, and is distinguished, I understand, by activity, energy, and intelligence. E-I have brought back Delta's 'Remains.' N. They are admirable. Aird is the best memoir writer I have read for years. He neither says too much nor too little about his hero. And what genuine, because not stilted, taste! and what gleams of finest poetic description! and what a healthy, natural, breezy tone in the whole book! Thomas Aird is the May among mankind. W. That's wonderfully laudatory for you. X.-Think of Aird and Eugene Sue strolling down the banks of the Nith together-could such a thing be. It were the marriage of an apricot and a stalk of arsenic, or • Effingham Wilson, publisher W.-Why, even you were struck with the Garden and the Child.' N.-Yes, on hearing you read it when I was half asleep. W. The 'Garden and the Child' is one of the purest results of inspiration in poetry. Like a very different poem by a very different man-Tam o'Shanter'-it comes out as 'from a mould,' and you dare not alter a single word of it. It was spoiled in the printing in the 'Critic,' and did not therefore tell so well on the general.' Me it melted to tears. The description of the eclipse is equal to Wordsworth. X-What's Yendys about? W.-Engaged on a new poem. He's a great fellow. Listen to this description of Night :— She was given, Pale as she is, to pride, and did bedeck And God he said, Let no man look on her N.-[starting up]-Well! that is glorious. The best description of Night I ever heard. W.-You are a pretty fellow, N., to praise Campbell after cutting him up so in a magazine now defunct! Ah! you speak of a deserted churchyard-I could fill a 'Gallery' with reminiscences of those I have seen. Four will I mention dearer than the rest. First, one standing near the banks of the river Ruchel, in my native parish, just where the rough and rapid stream cleaves the woody hollow of Dalraunoch, having left Glenartney's hazel shade behind it, and seeking to wed the Earn in the wide plain of Comrie. Often have I mused in that churchyard, and bathed in the clear, deep, determined stream running between the cold polished rocks, which at one point nearly close above it. The second is the churchyard of Strowan, laved by the Earn, which here is one of the most pellucid of waters, every pebble being visible. Surely that bridge is one of enchantment; I have leant over it for hours, looking at nothing but the clear pebbles, and hearing nothing but the soft lapse of the river, which seemed lingering and speaking to itself ere it could leave a scene so fair. The third stands on a bare, heathy eminence in KincarE-lifting up a green-backed volume]-What's this? dineshire, commanding toward the west a prospect of the The Poetical Works of Samuel Whitelocke.' Who is he? glorious gorge of The Burn; which seems, at a distance, a W.-A very worthy and somewhat poetical youth in thin stripe of woodland; but which, when neared, includes Glasgow, who evinces talent; only I think it were six miles of the most varied magnificence of rock, corn-field, better employed in some other line than the poetical. dark purple waters, lawn, tower, grotto, and rich embower- Here's a little pile of semi-theological books of various merit ing wood. Oh! that Burn! what delightful hours I have -Leask's Beauties of the Bible,' animated, clever, and spent in its shady retirements-especially when autumn full of sound millennarian doctrine; Wallace on the had unfurled the red banners of the rowan-tree, had 'Bible and the Working-Classes,' able and seasonable; touched with its flaming finger the leaves, had whitened Spence on the Religion for Mankind,' replete with smart, the corn-fields, softened the sunlight, and darkened the epigrammatic sentences, and with evangelical unction colour and deepened the voice of the murmuring Esk! and a rather ingenious and peculiar work, entitled 'Man, My fourth and favourite churchyard is that on the east Natural and Spiritual.' end of Lochlea. It, in Shelley's language, 'might make one in love with death.' There lies one of our Scottish poets, Ross, author of the Fortunate Shepherdess '-fortunate shepherd he, too, in finding such a resting-place. Trees cast their calm or musical shadows over the graves; an old castle is near, 'silent in its age; the dark lake, with the bare mountains sinking sheer down upon its waters, lies toward the west; only two human habitations are in sight; and all combine to make the scene the very loveliness and grandeur of desolation. How well I remember-five years ago while twilight was deepening into night, feeling an irresistible impulse to bathe in the waters, plunging into the cold black wave, and receiving a shock which seemed to come from the very foundations of the earth; and how fresh and strong I felt when I came out, and became alive to the interest of my position-alone, below a misty night-sky, with the dark lake murmuring in begun storm at my feet, the stern mountains around, and the little onely kirkyard behind me. X.-[Aside to N.]-What do you think of that? N.-Pshaw! he has no real admiration of nature. It's all humbug. I once walked with him, on a fine summer night, along the beautiful Magdalene Green; and he kept talking away about books, and never made the slightest allusion to the splendours of the scene. E. He should have exclaimed, I suppose, like a young lady, How beautiful! O, enchanting! divine!' X-Or Most extraordinary.' N.-I see the 'Critic' lying on your table. W.-Yes! the Critic' is the most delightful literary melange in the world. Its editor is an accomplished and talented man; and, by his unwearied exertions, has raised to the top of the press at once the character and the circulation of the paper. It now circulates 7000 copies. Its spirit is catholic and kindly; its gossip as accurate as pleasant; and ever and anon admirable articles flash like meteors across it. N.-Smith of Glasgow is a pet of yours. doing all you can to ruin him. You are N.-All and each mere stuff. N.-No! but I know one of their authors, and once contrasted him with Enoch. W.-Indeed! Here's another good book, 'Consolation for Christian Mourners,' by that eminent aged servant of Christ, Dr Thomson of Coldstream. It should be in every chamber of the wide House of Mourning. Omnes.-Amen! To an impertinent Youth, who had spoken contemptuously of a I rom age to age thy reign shall last, Burns fiercest with no heaven about it, Nor let it once be quencli'd by Loutit. W.-Where are the poor fellow's friends? Yet his book is in elegant blue, handsomely printed, and has as many asterisks as there are stars in the midnight. I fear his case is hopeless. N.-'Tis the age of bad poetry, and you have conduced greatly to its multiplication, by being too lenient to the portentous donkeys who send you their silly rhyming ware. It were different were I in the judgment-seat. W. Yes, you fit the chair of the scorner admirably. What say you of this volume of sermons and miscellaneous papers, by MrJarvie of Kelso? He is evidently an accomplished man, and writes with considerable taste and spirit. N. They had better have slumbered in MS., instead of becoming the cause of slumber to others. They are a spiritual hodge-podge. X.-How did you enjoy your last trip to London ? W. Very well. I renewed my acquaintance with Binney, Philip, Morrison, and Harris. I met 'Old Humphrey,' a very delightful fellow; and I had a halfhour's talk with Mazzini, a man who carries the noblest head and face on his shoulders I ever saw. David Masson, who, by the way, is a very clever and very rising man, introduced me. N.-I don't know about Mazzini, but Kossuth is a gigantic humbug. W.-What a splenetic fellow you are! the greatest man alive. N.-Mazzini has never been charged with tergiversation-Kossuth has. Read Georgy's Life and Labours in Hungary.' Did you meet Marston? N.-Condensed! Is a nebula the condensation of a comet ? Have you read the Day-spring?' E.-Yes. It has many good papers; but, on the whole, is rather tedious. A thick, six hundred-paged volume of desultory meditations is rather too much. The editor, Dr Dobbin of Hull, is an amiable, talented, and learned man. He has made Strauss shake in his filthy shoes. W.-Right! Strauss is a great blockhead-the last stench of the infidel spirit. To turn the irregular, rough, glorious notes of that divine life into a carefully constructed myth, what an idea! N.-The 'Revolt of Tartarus!' a curious title, and a curious book. It seems Milton run away from his genius and his senses. X.-What will W. say of this? E-He is rapt in reverie, else probably he would defend the book as he does all the bad poetry that's sent to him. W.-[starting up]-Who speaks of bad poetry? The Kossuth is author of the Revolt of Tartarus' is a man of very considerable fancy and power of language. And so also, notwithstanding the Athenæum,' et hoc genus omne, is Mr Orton, author of the Enthusiast,' and Excelsior,' some of whose touches approach the verge of genius. He is young, indeed, and has yet much to learn; but he has the divinæ particula auræ in him, and that spark many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown. N.-Professional! W.-In Dundee, three years ago. He is a very gentle, intelligent, gentlemanly fellow. It is a pity that he should continue a mere playwright: he is capable of better things. I did not meet Croly this last time, but saw him in September. He was then in great force. He has all the dignity of a rejected god. I heard him preach. He has now a splendid congregation, and gives them good solid stuff, with less of the poetical than you might expect. I heard Melville, too, but was disappointed. He did not rise above good, easy, vigorous speaking, and talked now and then ineffable nonsense. Speaking of the fish with the piece of money in its mouth,' he said it represented Christ coming back from the grave with the price of the world's redemption ! He is a commonplace looking man, and, although a capital preacher, not, I fear, a man of genius. X.-I was terribly disappointed with Hugh Miller's lectures in your chapel; not with the matter, but with the manner. There is a unique clumsiness about it. He reminded me of a mammoth dancing in primeval mud. You call a lecturer a compound of prophet and play-actor; but honest Hugh, as a lecturer, is one of his own queer geological composites-a winged lizard, say, with very large head, very heavy body, and rather short wings. What a pronunciation! W. Hugh Miller is a noble fellow-an honour to Scotland. I am sorry I could not hear his third lecture, it was said to be truly magnificent. X.- Have you read Isaac Taylor on Chalmers, in the 'North British ?' W-Yes. It is too long, here and there very prosy, and its cacophony is clumsier than the worst of Chalmers, or even of his own. Yet, in some parts, you recognise the author of the Saturday Evening.' His estimate of the religion of Scotland is very flattering; I wish it were true. I think he lays too much stress upon human schemes of revival: there's little allusion to the neces sity for divine aid to help us. Wise and cultivated man as he is, he is not aware either of our real dangers or of the real source of our deliverance. Chalmers himself only became so a little before his death. There's a smell of earthliness about the whole article somehow, unworthy of the author of the Theory of Another Life.' E. It was only the physical theory. N.-Isaac Taylor has no real genius. He and his works are just one long spasm. He is a most unnatural, factitious writer. He is made up of pieces: here a piece of puritanism; there of patristicism; and there, again, of modern philosophy. His day is over. X.-And you have almost ceased to be so. E-I can believe you, for I too know something of how parsons fare in the North Countree.' W.-The North Countree! How vividly I remember a trip to Buchan! The Bullers, the far-seen peak of Bennachie, and Slains Castle, standing out so boldly from its rock upon the wild waste sea-also the Deveron, above Banff the beautiful Brig of Alva-Elgin, that elegant miniature of Edinburgh, and one long delightful summer's day spent on the banks of the Findhorn. That was one of the golden days of my life! X-How many such have you had ? W.-How few distinctly outstanding days of undivided happiness has any life! One can number them by units; but how dear the memory of these diamond points of existence is! I would in certain moods willingly go over all my unhappy hours again, if I were thereby to secure the recurrence of two or three days of my past life. Life, like French revolutions, has sometimes its three memorable days, followed, perchance, by months of the blackness of darkness. N. I have outlived all such sentimentalism. X.-I like that pamphlet of Houston's of Newcastle on 'Capital Punishments.' It is written with genuine Milesian spirit. W. He is wrong, I think, in his argument, but is undoubtedly a man of high talent, far above some of our mushroom and much cried-up young ministers. Here are two clever little brochures by James S. Ramsay, of the 'Arbroath Guide;' one an account of a fortnight in London, and the other a very spirited lecture on the Influence of Literature.' Perge puer. X.-You should have said, 'Pergite pueri,' for your yawns tell too plainly that you want us away. W.-Stop! I am not yet done. There are two or three other fellows waiting notice. Verdicts.' 'Tis an account of poets by the author of Baby May.' 'Tis clever, but too like Hunt and Lowell, yet without their careful finish. Letters to George Combe,' by Mr Manson of Bannockburn. A most superior pamphlet. How the 'plain tale of this practical educator puts down the pompous and shallow author of the Constitution of Man.' mean author of the book called so-a book in which, X.-I hate a dull blasphemer. Shelley raved like a drunk demigod. But our modern school of sceptics are as stupid as they are profane. By the way, I read Browning's Paracelsus' over again the other day. "Tis the muddiest piece of poetic glory I ever encountered-sunlight in a puddle. Yet what divine sentences and lines there occur here and there! W.-Browning's genius is too big ever to be born. N. Is there no one to perform the Caesarean operation? E. I greatly admire 'Twice-told Tales,' by Hawthorne. The Veiled Minister' is a fearful story, the distinct germ of the Scarlet Letter.' But what does he mean by the Great Carbuncle? W.-I fear he means Christianity. He wishes, I suspect, to represent it as a beautiful impossible dream, like that Carbuncle which his party seek and see, but never find. Alas! alas! for the world, if this be the case! If so, I see no help for it but in an act of 'universal, simultaneous suicide a general rush to the Australia of Death. This man, who writes' Man Unfit to Govern Man,' has a very different view. OMAR, the hermit of the mountain Aubukabis, which rises on the east of Mecca, and overlooks the city, found one evening a man sitting pensive and alone, within a few paces of his cell. Omar regarded him with attention, and perceived that his looks were wild and haggard, and that his body was feeble and emaciated; the man also seemed to gaze steadfastly on Omar; but such was the abstraction of his mind, that his eye did not immediately take cognisance of its object. In the moment of recollection he started as from a dream, he covered his face in confusion, and bowed himself to the ground. Son of affliction,' said Omar, who art thou, and what is thy distress?' 'My name,' replied the stranger, 'is Hassan, and I am a native of this city the angel of adversity has laid his hand upon me, and the wretch whom thine eye compassionates, thou canst not deliver.' To deliver thee,' said Omar, belongs to Him only from whom we should receive with humility both good and evil: yet hide not thy life from me, for the burden which I cannot remove I may at least enable thee to sustain.' Hassan fixed his eyes upon the ground, and remained some time silent; then, fetching a deep sigh, he looked up at the hermit, and thus complied with his request. 'It is now six years since our mighty lord, the Caliph Almalic (whose memory be blessed) first came privately to worship in the temple of the holy city. The blessing which he petitioned of the prophet, as the prophet's vicegerent, he was diligent to dispense: in the intervals of his devotion, therefore, he went about the city, relieving distress and restraining oppression: the widow smiled under his protection, and the weakness of age and infancy was sustained by his bounty. I who dreaded no evil but sickness, and expected no good beyond the reward of my labour, was singing at my work when Almalic entered my dwelling. He looked round with a smile of complacency, perceiving that though it was mean it was neat, and that though I was poor I appeared to be content. As his habit was that of a pilgrim, I hastened to receive him with such hospitality as was in my power; and my cheerfulness was rather increased than restrained by his presence. After he had accepted some coffee, he asked me many questions; and though by my answers I always endeavoured to excite him to mirth, yet I perceived that he grew thoughtful, and eyed me with a placid but fixed attention. I suspected that he had some knowledge of me, and therefore inquired his country and his name. Hassan,' said he, 'J have raised thy curiosity, and it shall be satisfied; he who now talks with thee is Almalic, the sovereign of the faithful, whose seat is the throne of Medina, and whose commission is from above.' These words struck me dumb with astonishment, though I had some doubt of their truth: but Almalic, throwing back his garment, discovered the peculiarity of his vest, and put the royal signet upon his finger. I then started up, and was about to prostrate myself before him, but he prevented me. 'Hassan,' said he, 'forbear; thou art greater than I, and from thee I have at once derived humility and wisdom.' I answered, 'Mock not thy servant, who is but as a worm before thee: life and death are in thy hand, and happiness and misery are the daughters of thy will.' 'Hassan,' he replied, 'I cannot otherwise give life or happiness than by not taking them away: thou art thyself beyond the reach of my bounty, and possessed of felicity which I can neither communicate nor obtain. My influence over others fills my bosom with perpetual solici │tude and anxiety; and yet my influence over others extends only to their vices, whether I would reward or punish. By the bowstring I can repress violence and fraud, and by the delegation of power I can transfer the insatiable wishes of avarice and ambition from one object to another; but with respect to virtue I am impotent; if I could reward it, I would reward it in thee. Thou art content, and hast therefore neither avarice nor ambition: to exalt thee, would destroy the simplicity of thy life, and diminish that happiness which I have no power either to increase or to continue.' 'He then rose up, and commanding me not to disclose his secret, departed. 'As soon as I recovered from the confusion and astonishment in which the caliph left me, I began to regret that my behaviour had intercepted his bounty, and accused that cheerfulness of folly which was the concomitant of poverty and labour. I now repined at the obscurity of my station, which my former insensibility had perpetuated; I neglected my labour, because I despised the reward; I spent the day in idleness, forming romantic projects to recover the advantages which I had lost; and at night, instead of losing myself in that sweet and refreshing sleep, from which I used to rise with new health, cheerfulness, and vigour, I dreamed of splendid habits and a numerous retinue, of gardens, palaces, eunuchs, and women, and waked only to regret the illusions that had vanished. My health was at length impaired by the inquietude of my mind; I sold all my moveables for subsistence, and reserved only a mattress, upon which I sometimes lay from one night to another. 'In the first moon of the following year the caliph came again to Mecca, with the same secrecy and for the same purposes. He was willing once more to see the man whom he considered as deriving felicity from himself; but he found me, not singing at my work, ruddy with health, vivid with cheerfulness, but pale and dejected, sitting on the ground, and chewing opium, which contributed to substitute the phantoms of imagination for the realities of greatness. He entered with a kind of joyful impatience in his countenance, which the moment he beheld me was changed to a mixture of wonder and pity. I had often wished for another opportunity to address the caliph; yet I was confounded at his presence, and throwing myself at |