in his eyes and woe in his heart, and a dart in his bosom, and a thorn in his liver."* His father next resolves to consult a holy man, and bring his child to him for advice, since "when all other keys of a door are lost, the finger of prayer can open it." He accordingly sets off in his search, and finds the poor wanderer seated at the foot of the hill. We wish we had space for the exquisite dialogue that ensues between the poor old man and his son. It is full of pathos and poetry, such as the scene might well inspire, and its language is all simple and real; for true sorrow does not indulge in the graces of rhetoric, as inferior writers would represent it; and, more especially, paternal sorrow finds in silence its appropriate speech. Thus David laments in broken apostrophes over his lost Absalom; and the whole round of history can tell no deeper outburst of anguish than that of Jacob, when he refused to let his Rachel's last child go down to Egypt; "if mischief befall him by the way in which ye go, then shall ye bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave." Bitterly does Sid Omri weep over his son, who, he had hoped, would have been his stay in his old age, and at last he prevails on him to accompany him to the house of the holy hermit. But no entreaties or counsel could persuade him to give up the cherished image of Leila; he returns once more to his solitude, and his father goes home to his friends, and sits down to dream "that he never had a son.' The poet now turns to Leila, and tells how the son of a certain neighbouring chief, named Ibn Salam, asks her in marriage. Her parents joyfully accede; in vain Leila remonstrates with all the eloquence of passionate love; "what have I to do with kindred or tribe? my lover is a sufficient world for me." The marriage is solemnised amidst joy and festivity, and Leila resigns herself with woman's patient endurance to hopeless sorrow. The agony and despair of Mejnoon, when he hears of her apparent faithlessness, can be best learned in the sad lines of Hatifi: "If thou art not faithful, there is no remedy left; thou art my life, and, alas! life is always faithless." He writes her a passionate let ter of reproach, and the meek answer of Leila is exquisite: Her letter, which was the cure for his wound, "If Cupid throws a single dart, We make him wound the lover's heart, And he said, "This letter is the good-tidings of my soul, At length spring comes, and brings with it, among other blessings, a visit of friends to Mejnoon, and a long description of its beauties to the reader of Hatifi. The Persian poets are almost invariably tedious in their accounts of spring; the luxuriance of nature seems to make their inventive faculty equally luxuriant, and reality and sense can by no means keep pace with the growth of their fancies. Conceit buds forth after conceit in never-ending succession; and were it not for the fact that all things have an end (except apparently the income tax and the "Gentleman's Magazine"), we should be tempted to suppose that hero and heroine, and all the dramatis persona, were forgotten, or changed into trees, like Lucian's companions in his "True History," and the story itself transformed into an arbour, like the ship of the pirates (in Nonnus) that carried away Bacchus on his way from India! But in this even the Persians yield to the Hindoos, as the epic poem called the "Cumara Sambhava" can abun dantly testify, which "drags its slow length along" through thousands of lines, and at its close has passed through such a desert of description, that it has not arrived yet at the marriage of its hero's mother, although its express object was to celebrate the deeds of the future Cumara! But to return. Mejnoon's friends endeavour to persuade him to return to his home, but to no avail. They find him seated in the midst of a circle of the various beasts of the forest, who served as a kind of bodyguard to defend him; and no inducements could prevail upon him to leave his dumb companions. "I see," said he, "no faith in men, so it is good that I remain with the beasts."* They return, therefore, and leave him; but fortune at length smiles for a while upon the wanderer, and one night he dreams that his long-lost Leila comes and He awakes, gives him a handful of roses. and finds verily that the garland is in his hands, and he waits in perplexity till day dawns. And when "the king of morning rose like Khosru, and sate on his royal throne, and the black hair of night became white like camphire, and light was scattered over the face of the air," Mejnoon rose likewise, and vowed to visit his mistress. And he does visit and see her, and She saw him from within her tent, *Hatifi says elsewhere, "many a good outside hath evil within, many a beast walks about in human shape," which reminds one of old Rabelais' joke, "dans le temps que les bestes parloyent,-il n'y a pas trois jours." Their conversation is, however, interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the husband, and poor Mejnoon again returns to his mountain home, "with a mountain of grief on his soul." One day a chief named Naufal passes by, and pities the poor wanderer, and on hearing his tale, resolves to aid him, and accordingly demands Leila by an embassy to the tribe; and, on their refusal, attacks it with his troops. He is victorious, and Mejnoon seems on the border of happiness, but fortune forgets not her old malevolence. Naufal falls in love with his beauteous prize, and determines to keep her for himself. He gives orders that Mejnoon should be poisoned at a banquet, but by some mistake the slave gives the wrong cup to his master, and Naufal falls a victim to his own perfidy. On his death, however, Leila's father comes and carries her back, and Mejnoon is left to his despair. We now come to the most beautiful chapters of the whole poem; and we do not hesitate to say that the whole round of Persian poetry cannot surpass them. Mejnoon wanders along, "neither dead nor alive," and one day he passes by a garden. But Hatifi shall tell his story in his own words. It is a gleam of sunshine in the darkness-a little vista through the pathless forest of time, into one quiet glen, where other human foot never passed: As he turned his eyes to that garden, At the foot of a green young cypress; And Mejnoon ran to the gardener, To the place where the young tree stood, He turned his face to him, and cried, "Oh, old man, Take away that axe from the foot of that tree. Its noble stem is without a peer, It flourishes fair as mine own dear Leila." I have two, aye, three children, a little band, Is fire at night and sunshine by day. Not a cowrie is mine of the wealth of the world, The world hath never seen its peer. Take it as the price of the cypress, Bear it home with thee instead of the tree." *This story is alluded to in old Castell's wellnigh forgotten Lexicon, in the word "azad," and flings a strange gleam of poetry over his dull dictionary details and uncouth Latin. It is almost like that faint gleam in the "Eton Greek Grammar," Beneath that cypress tree (which is like Tennyson's "talking oak") the forlorn lover sat, and poured forth his lamentations, and "talked with it apart," " and then, as evening shades fell over the desert, he pursued his lonely way. And now, reader, we enter into the "sacred precincts," and the flower of Hatifi's genius is before us, in the "meeting of the lovers:" Leila, fair as the moon, came riding on her camel, And passing on from stage to stage, The heart-stealer was sunk in sleep, Laili, when she opened her eyes from sleep, Was astonished to find herself in the midst of a valley, And her camel bore her along the waste, With its head free from the bridle. Oh, thou forlorn one, what is thy name? To whose tribe and lineage dost thou belong?" And then, with a thousand sweet endearments, I am the consolation of thy heart." And made her bosom a home for that wretched one. "neutra pluralia gaudent in verbo singulari." Amid the load of dry rules and drier examples, it refreshes one to find even a little conceit, or attempt at one. Oh, broken heart, be not sorrowful, Poor lover, I am thy solace; Whatever thou willest I will do. Oh, sure it is best that we go hand in hand, And bow a farewell to the world, Never for a moment be parted from each other, Burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh, jasmine-bosom, The gate of the city thou canst shut, But not the mouth of the slanderer. Oh, it were better still, that, unseen by men, I took thee back to thy father! If thy presence blesses me not, I must rest content with this thy vision. Till thy real presence comes to bless me, darling." We must hasten to the close, and pass over the remainder of the tale. Leila dies at her father's house, and is buried with mournful pomp: From grief for her Mejnoon she lay down in the dust, She came pure from heaven, and pure to heaven she returned. The stone that rests over her grave Speaks with a tongue of her spotless name, With a voice it tells her tale to all, And utters its complaint against the wrong of fate. Her last request to her mother is that she should bear the sad tidings to Mejnoon, and the lover does not long survive. He dies, surrounded by his faithful body-guard of beasts, and (like Robin Redbreast in our own babes in the wood) the spider weaves a shroud to cover him. A passing caravan finds his body, and buries him there: - He is gone and we too follow behind him, The same end awaits us all at the last! Thus closes the tale of Leila and Mejnoon, which has immortalised the name of Abdullah Hatifi in the East. Their story was a sad one, but from that dark root springs the blossom of poetry; and like Petrarch and Laura, and Abelard and Heloise, their names and history hang conspicuous in what Nizami calls "the picturegallery of the soul." And no small interest is added thereto from the consideration that it is no dream of a poet's heated imagination, but truth. The wandering Arab of Hejaz will yet repeat with rapture the fragments of Mejnoon's poetry, that have been handed down by tradition from that remote old time, preserved unprinted, unwritten, being engraved on the tablet of the human heart. During those long centuries, the world has seen countless changes, but the heart of man still speaks to man, and this fond pair of lovers, with their joys and sorrows, is dearer to the poor unlettered Arab than the whole line of caliphs. He cannot tell you the names of the men who bore Mahomet's faith to triumph, who the fame of the poor orphan of Mecca; but he can tell you the story of Leila and Mejnoon, and he will leave it as a heirloom to his children, though he be as poor as Hatifi's gardener in the desert. "Oh, sovereign power of love, oh, grief, oh, balm, All records saving thine come cool and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of past years!" Keats. THE BOAR HUNT.* THE DEPARTURE. My dogs and choicest huntsmen And cannot leave his wife." Thus quickly answered Croesus, For a boar, a mighty monster, But most of them were dead. And thence at early morn He sallied to the cornfields, And trampled down the corn. In silence heard the ambassador, And lowly bowed his head; Though haply much he marvelled At what the king had said. He rose to leave the presence, But as he turned away, In hastily came Atys, And motioned him to stay. He bowed before his father, With mind foreboding ill The aged king upraised him, And bade him speak his will. "My father," said the stripling, Fire kindling in his eye, "When my youth was in its springtide, None was braver held than I. "But now the battle rages, They're arming for the chase, My messmates all are there, sire, But empty is my place: What will the Lydians say, sire, And what my youthful wife, How will she judge the husband To whom she's wed for life? "In silence I have borne it, Till I can bear no more; To hunt the Mysian boar. My error let me know, To grievous sin may grow." *The story on which this ballad is founded occurs in Europe, and Asia, and Africa, spread in the first book of Herodotus. "My son," replied King Croesus, "I have no son but thee, For the poor dumb boy, thy brother, Is as nothing held by me, I have no one to succeed me, If thou, my son, shouldst die; Then wonder not, my first born, That I watch thee heedfully. "For a vision in the night-time Came and stood above my head, I saw it in the moonlight, And it spoke to me and said— But an iron point shall slay him- "Into thin air it vanished, And quickly I awoke, But in mine ears were wringing Thou canst not then well marvel "For this I made thy marriage, Without an heir was dead." "My father," answered Atys, ""Tis a hard thought for thee, And none can rightly censure Thine anxious care for me; Yet listen for a moment And I will clearly show, That to the Mysian boar hunt With safety I may go. "It was an iron shod weapon The vision bade you fear, 'King Croesus looked upon him, And his breast was filled with joy, As he marked the princely bearing And stature of the boy. He looked upon his sinews, And his purpose was unbent, Up leapt the joyous stripling, I'll go and tell my wife, By all the gods, my pulses Are throbbing for the strife." The king he looked upon him, With a sad and thoughtful smile; "Go, bid Adrastus hither, I'd speak with him the while." When thou didst come to me, Had set its curse on thee. By a father forced to wander, An outcast thou did'st roam, I cleansed thy hands from bloodshed, "And since then entertainment Most bounteous and free, "But I have just consented That my son shall join the chase, And I fear that never more I may look upon his face : So I would have thee follow "Lest evil-minded robbers Should kill him in a fray, To gird thy pensive brow." "Lord king," replied Adrastus, For a murdered brother's image Stands before me night and day, And a brother's blood is on me, That no rites can wash away. "But well I feel, King Croesus, To guard thy son was sent." "Adrastus," cried King Croesus, I now can see undaunted My darling son depart; There's not a man in Lydia, Whom I'd sooner trust than thee, I know that as a father Thou'lt watch my child for me." (To be continued.) The Emigrants' Wives. A PASSAGE FROM REAL LIFE. It is not a fiction that I am about to relate-I would it were!-but the darkest shades of human character, and the strangest vicissitudes of fortune, exist, not only in novels, but in real life. The observation of many, the sad experience of some, prove this; and there are few who might not draw from knowledge a stronger interest and more wholesome moral than fiction can generally furnish. In the following story little more than the names is feigned; but as the principal characters are now dead, the relation can injure no one. James and Philip Winstanley were brothers. They both made their appearance at the same time in the small country town of Few knew their parents; but as nephews of a neighbouring squire, their respectability was undoubted, and the young men were at once received into the coteries of the place, which were stamped as good society. James, the elder, had been a midshipman, but now wished to begin the pursuit of agriculture. He was rather pleasing than otherwise; he was not very tall, but had a frank, open countenance, and manners that united the sailor with the gentleman. Philip Winstanley was strikingly the reverse of his brother. Tall, remarkably handsome both in face and person, and fascinating in manner, he soon became a universal favourite. He called himself an attorney, but there was little appear ance of practice; however, the fair ones of were not disposed to criticise harshly a young man who dressed elegantly, danced well, rode well, wrote pretty verses, painted good portraits, played several instruments, sang pleasingly, and was never at a loss in conversation. Everybody liked young Philip Winstanley; but the wiser ones sometimes shook their heads, and said he was too much of a genius to turn out well, and that James was much the worthier of the two. However, both brothers went on their way; Philip making many friends, James liked by few, but by those few heartily and truly. At length, the young men having been married by report to half the young ladies in the neighbourhood, it became publicly known that both were affianced. James' choice was a pleasing, quiet, sensible girl, whom he had long known and loved-some said, even in his midshipman's days. Elizabeth Marston was everyway qualified to make home happy. She was in parties known little-a pretty, silent girl, whom no one ever thought of asking to play or sing; but see her in her widowed mother's house, quietly moving about, the unnoticed spring of all domestic comfort to both mother and brothers, then you would truly say that Elizabeth was made to be a good man's happy wife. James felt it so; and from the time he had asked her and she had promised to be his, there was perfect love and confidence between the two. They were scarcely like lovers-almost as sedate as man and wife; for James' character was too open and straightforward for the vagaries of courtship (the nonsense, we were about to write), and Elizabeth had too little of sentiment in her nature to require them. So the pair seemed like old people, instead of lovers; indeed, some said that James showed his dependence in rather an unlover-like way;-that knowing his own sailor-like habit of useless extravagance, he was accustomed to place all his money in the careful hands of his ladylove. Neither owned this; but probably it was not untrue. Philip too had chosen his future wife. He had met at a ball a tall, graceful girl, who wore white roses in her jet-black hair, and was attired in simple white. Such were her habiliments, for Grace Forrest, girllike, afterwards recounted them, in speaking of an evening which decided her future fate. She was an orphan-an adopted child. Without any natural ties to fill up the void in her heart, it might be that love found an easier entrance there. Young, beautiful, and warm-hearted, of disposition gentle and amiable, with a mind above the common order, and tinged with a good deal of romance, no wonder that Grace listened to the passionate and winning words of Philip Winstanley, who was so well qualified, both by nature and acquirement, to gain a woman's heart. None opposed their union, and even the envious acknowledged that Grace Forrest and her lover had every prospect of married happiness. Grace herself was the only one who had occasional misgivings; but these were soon dashed away by the hopeful, loving nature of youth. "I know he is hasty and passionate," said she once to Ellen Maywood, her only near friend, for she was slow in forming intimacies, as the really good often are; "I know that Philip is hasty, and will not bear a single cold word; but then he tells me his temper was sorely tried in youth, and he loves me so much, he will never be passionate with me. A wife can do all with a husband whose principles she trusts. All Philip's little errors will subside when I can be always near him, to calm him and win him on to good. Oh, he loves me so much." And so Grace went on with her beautiful creed of love's omnipotence. But ah! love is not all; and Grace knew not, in her simplicity, that in an unsteady and unprincipled heart true love cannot exist, though its semblance may, After some time, the two brothers formed a plan of emigration. James, whose diligence had gained him much knowledge in agriculture, had heard of good prospects opening in Van Dieman's Land, and thither he and Philip determined to go. After some difficulty, the consent of the two fiancées to the scheme was gained. Grace had no domestic ties, and Elizabeth was willing to follow him she loved, leaving home and kindred. The double marriage was celebrated on the same day. Grace Winstanley came to bid her friend Ellen adieu, the day before she went on board the ship which was to convey the two brothers and their brides to Van Dieman's Land. She had parted with all her bridal finery, and was dressed in plain dark calico. 66 'Why have I done so, Ellen?" said she, in answer to her friend's almost regretful observation; "ob, laces and satins would |