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me. I have beheld the glory of my Lord and His Apostles! But with what colours shall I paint them? It is impossible!" Still, though he suffered much from a timid anxiety, he was now in possession of a plan for his work, and everything stood in living reality before him, as he had beheld it in his holy trance, and he was resolved thus to paint it, and not otherwise. Immediately after the Easter festival, therefore, he began his work. The refectory was locked, and no one allowed ingress so long as Leonardo painted. Only the prior peered closely after him whenever he came and went, if haply he might discover from his countenance with what success the work proceeded. At first this occasioned Leonardo little annoyance, and, in the excitement of his work, he passed and repassed the monk almost without noticing him. As, however, there seemed to be no end of this spying and watching, and as every day the malice of the prior, whose hateful visage and satanic smile never failed to encounter him, became more apparent, the Master entered the refectory in bitterness, and left it in fury. "Wait only, thou Iscariot!" he ence mentally exclaimed, in a fit of ungovernable rage, "wait only a short time longer, and thou shalt have enough to satisfy thee as long as thou livest." And with these words, uttered almost unconsciously, he at once hit upon the means and manner of his revenge. His plan was this,-first to finish painting the eleven, then to paint Judas, for whom he had now obtained something more than an ideal original, and then, when with this he had appeased his wrath-then, last of all, the Lord himself.

But how dare a mortal hope to unite the extremes of light and darkness without some intervening middle tints? By what means shall human art acquire the power of depicting, first, the personification of spiritual deformity, and, immediately afterwards, the perfection of spiritual beauty? This vain attempt cast a stumbling block in Leonardo's path, which rendered the completion of his work impossible. Summer and autumn were past, and winter had already covered nature with a mantle of silence and shadows. The eleven were finished, and stood depicted upon the wall in lines of living glory, as he had seen them on the night of Maunday-Thursday. He had sated his fury and revenge by the representation of the traitor Judas, and now came the time when he should paint the Lord; but at this part of his task his wonted powers forsook him. The graceful contour of the head, the folds of the robe, were all he could effect; for out of the bitter source from which he had called Judas into being, he could never produce the most Gentle and the most Holy. Leonardo felt his incapacity, but his darkened mind saw not the cause. The divine features of the Redeemer, as he had gazed upon them on that night, had entirely vanished from his soul. He still hoped, however, that the spirit would return; and for days together he stood in mournful contemplation before his picture, or spent the time in drawing idle figures upon the scaffold. Thus passed days, then weeks, and still the spirit for which he waited so anxiously came not, though the time appointed him for the conclusion of his work was now very near. The mild breezes of spring were already breathing over Italy; already the banks of the streams and the rushing rivulets showed a brighter verdure; and still Leonardo remained in inactive fruitless musing. But now his heart beat more anxiously. He had hitherto avoided as much as possible looking his danger in the face; its near approach, however, compelled him to do so; and the conviction settled upon his mind that he should never be able to complete his work. His bodily strength decayed in proportion to the decay of his mental energies; and his sunk eye and pallid cheek betrayed too plainly his mental sufferings. These were characters which the prior found little difficulty in reading; and this hated object, which every day more boldly and with less concealed scorn encountered him, deprived him of the last remains of his

self-possession. The trees of the forest again gave their budding tops to the gentle rocking of the breeze, and the Duke inquired more pressingly about his work. Leonardo spent the little time now remaining in earnest prayer to God for support, and invoking his sainted Master to grant his promised aid. But in vain! No help appeared; and he could only tell the Duke, in answer to his repeated inquiries, that the picture should be finished upon the appointed day.

The holy week came, and his ear caught the sound of low contemptuous whisperings. His bosom-friend, Ottaviano, rushed into his room, and gasped out,-"Save thyself, Leonardo-thou art lost! The Prior knows that thou canst not paint the Christ-the Duke knows it! They talk of Buonarotti, of the dungeon-of trial for a state crime in trampling upon the Duke's picture !— Save thyself!-Fly!"

"Yes!" exclaimed the unhappy painter. "I will fly-will shake the dust of this abhorred city, this abode of serpents and adders, from my feet, and in my own beloved Florence, where the vengeance of the More and these monks cannot reach me, begin a new, a free life! I will

Here he was interrupted by the entrance of a detachment of the Duke's guard, who announced to him that he was a prisoner.

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"Now all is lost!" groaned Leonardo, falling back into his chair. My sun is set! What avails me all the labour I have bestowed upon the twelve in the refectory, when their Lord is wanting? What avails me all that I have done for thee and thy Milan, thou malicious tyrant? The enemy will come and reap where I have sown. Leonardo da Vinci will perish, and his memory with him. It is indeed bitter! Oh, how have I deserved this hard fate?"

Thus mourned the unhappy captive, for such in truth he was, though the guard that attended him were ostensibly for the purpose of protecting him from disturbance in his visits to the refectory. But these last visits proved as fruitless as many that had preceded them; and so approached the Wednesday in Passion-Week. The scaffolding was then taken down, and nothing but the curtain which concealed the picture remained. And now, when this last evening had given place to darkness and night, Leonardo tossed restlessly upon his couch of tears, and cried out," Andreas!, Andreas! save me in this my greatest earthly need!" But all remained still; all save the death-tick in the rafters; and no Andreas appeared to the suppliant. But at midnight belated travellers saw the windows of the refectory of the Dominican Convent gleam with an unearthly light, and a gigantic shadow move to and fro upon the arched ceiling.

Maunday-Thursday at length dawned, joyous and fragrant with violets as that of the preceding year; and Leonardo rose from his couch in a quiet composed frame, becoming one of his noble nature.

At the hour of noon he was conducted to the refectory. There a dense crowd was assembled, consisting of the monks of the convent, with the dignified clergy of Milan, all the great and noble of the city, the members of the Academy of Painting, and artists of every kind and degree. The confused hum of the multitude was hushed into a deathlike silence as the Master approached. Every look was fixed upon him, as, with eyes bent upon the ground, he leaned against a pillar in a recess of the window.

A noise without announced the approach of the Duke, who soon after entered the hall; surrounded by numerous attendants; at his side walked the Prior, with a face of triumph.

"Now, Master," said the Duke, turning to Leonardo, "if it be your pleasure, show to us the picture of the Lord's Supper, which you have completed in a year's time, in obedience to our commands. All our nobles and connoisseurs are assembled to behold what the celebrated painter of Florence has produced."

Incapable of answering, Leonardo bowed low, and remained in a stooping posture, like one awaiting the stroke of the executioner; and at the Duke's command the curtain flew back. A general "Ah! ah!" passed through the assembly. But Leonardo still remained stooping, his eyes rooted upon the pavement. Again, after a sudden stillness, burst forth the exclamation, "Ah! ah!"

And now Leonardo timidly raised his eyes, not daring to look at the picture, and yet not able to withhold his glance from turning in that direction. But the moment the painting encountered his uncertain gaze, he started back as if struck by lightning. He looked again, and his beating heart assured him that he indeed lived; that all this was indeed reality, and not the delusion of a dream. The pearly tears gushed from his eyes; he stretched out his arms towards the picture, and exclaimed, in a voice half choked by emotion,-" Oh, Andreas! Andreas!"

Before him, in finished beauty, he beheld the twelve Apostles, with the heavenly figure of the Redeemer, as they had appeared to him on the evening of his trance. At length the Duke turned to Leonardo, and measuring him from head to foot with a long expressive gaze, said to him, "Truly, Master Leonardo, you are a great painter; and the gold chain, with which unfortunately we are not provided, shall not be wanting. But you, Father Prior !-What say you to this? and what becomes of your penetration? Your reckoning will not bear the proof." Pale as death stood the monk, but made no answer, while louder on every side rose the noisy applause of the multitude; and, with the applause and the flattery with which the Master was overpowered, a comparing look, first singly here and there, passed from the painting to the Prior, then followed suppressed smiles and whispers, then louder murmurs, and at length all voices burst out into the malicious chorus: ""Tis he! "Tis he!" while Ottaviano, approaching the picture, pointed with his right hand to the painting, and with his left to the Prior, and said, "That is Judas Iscariot, who betrayed his Lord and Master!"

Here, where for so long a time had been heard only sighs of hopeless anguish, flowed now unrestrained tears of joy and gratitude.

"Thou hast kept thy word, my faithful master!" exclaimed the happy one, his full heart panting for utterance. "Oh, what can I do to render myself more worthy of thy fatherly love? Henceforward my life shall be devoted to fulfilling thy instructions, even as I have practised them to this day!"

Sleep, which had so long forsaken him, gently rocked the exhausted painter in her arms; and, as he slept, Andreas appeared to him, but his countenance was grave and stern. "What!" he spake angrily, "thou hast faithfully followed my precepts?-Oh, Leonardo ! Thy heart is not yet free from earthly pollution. Love your enemies,-bless them that curse you, do good to them that despitefully use you; that is our Lord's commandment. Hast thou kept this commandment? How often have I warned thee never to enter upon thy labours in a spirit of petty malice, or to transfer to thy productions the hateful or disgusting peculiarities of an enemy? What were my words to thee in the last hour I spent upon earth-that such labours never attain immortality. Hast thou kept the promise thou madest me, when the angel of death called me from thee? Thou turnest away in shame and remorse, for thy conscience awakens: and now the truth dawns upon thee, that the pious devotion with which thy work was begun forsook thee, when, in Judas Iscariot, thou couldst pander to a base revenge. Thy object is attained; the Prior is trampled to the earth; never again will he have it in his power to injure thee. But this object might have been reached without also insulting him in his fall. A contemptible and secondary motive-the gratification of a moment-had more weight with thee, than the completion of a perfect work. And to this moment thou hast sacrificed the immortality of thy masterpiece. Yes, Leonardo, madly and sinfully hast thou cast away the greater, to obtain the less. But thy sin was committed in a time of heart-blindness; therefore pardon, as well as punishment, has been awarded thee; pardon, in that I was permitted to hear thee, in thy hour of greatest

""Tis he! 'Tis he!" answered the delighted multi-carthly need; (for it was indeed thy greatest, both as ude; while the monks of the convent, concealed behind the throng, hating each other, and still more cordially hating the Prior, shouted louder than the rest, "Vere! Vere! est, est, est!" The Duke, too, pointed at the unhappy priest, distorted his mouth to a satiric grin, and said, "Est!"

A bitter pang shot through Leonardo's bosom. It is true, he had at first been gratified with the low whispered recognition of Judas; but the now triumphant shouting of the assembly disgusted him, and he felt it was a discord, destroying the harmony which the representation of a scene so blessed should have produced. It was only afterwards, when connoisseurs and lovers of the art lingered by the other figures of the picture, that more pleasurable feelings were restored, and that he heard with cheerfulness the various criticisms which were bestowed upon his work. After this manner, therefore, did Leonardo da Vinci complete his picture of the Lord's Supper, and his fame spread throughout Milan. On the same day the whole population crowded to the refectory, many of them, however, less with the intention of gazing with holy devotion upon the noble picture, than out of curiosity to see the Judas Iscariot; for the Prior had contrived to draw upon himself the dislike of all, old and young, rich and poor, chiefly on account of the baneful influence he exercised over the mind of the prince. Leonardo was completely overpowered by the burden of this fortunate day. Every one desired to see him; every one wished to entertain the man who had finished so great, so glorious a work; every one, according to his taste and his means, sought to testify his admiration, and it was late at night before the painter succeeded in escaping from the throng, into the quiet asylum of his lonely chamber.

man and artist,-henceforth none like it will darken thy horizon;) for this purpose I returned upon earth; and with the hues of heaven I painted the Lord of Glory. But I bring also thy punishment; for even this divine and sacred portion of thy picture will not escape the sad consequence of thy sin. For this is the curse of evil, that the good with which it is mingled is involved in its destruction. How could the representation of that most holy feast of love be gifted with enduring excellence, when with thine own hand thou hadst degraded it into a farce-when the laugh of vulgar malice was permitted to desecrate a scene which should only have awakened deep and solemn devotion? Therefore thy painting must perish. Yes, my son, thy picture shall perish, but not thy fame. Unskilful hands will seek to restore what time has despoiled; but, together with their touches, will all that is original gradually fall to dust. Only many thousand copies will tell to the most distant ages, how glorious that great original must have been. But none will give again the figure of the Lord as it there stands. To do this, is the pencil or graver of no mortal capable. The greatest ornament of thy painting will be lost, and in this consists thy greatest punishment. Future generations shall see only as in a dull mirror the divine countenance of the Redeemer as I have there depicted it, though even from the imperfect copy they will be exalted into a state of holy joy and admiration. But I enjoin upon thee silence regarding the assistance I have rendered thee. The knowledge that through this assistance alone thou and thy picture have arrived at such distinction, a knowledge which thou must lock up in a grateful heart, will keep thee humble amid the incenseclouds of praise; will purify and ennoble thy mind, by imparting to it a tone of pensiveness, so that thou mayst

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of that last hour which was to unite him with his faith-
ful master in the abode of the blessed. One day, as he
lay upon his couch in silent devotion, it seemed to him
as if he heard the tones of an organ floating on the still
air, accompanying the blessed words of Institution in
the Holy Eucharist, as he had heard them on the
threshold of the refectory in the Dominican convent at
Milan; he perceived also that odour of Paradise, which
Andreas had given him for a token. Joyfully he lifted
his fainting head, and gazed through the opening door
a garland of lilies, with their fragrant, snow-white
bells, was borne into the room,-they were the lilies of
France. The master sank back, smiling, whilst over
him was whispered-

Quando corpus morietur,
Fac ut animæ donetur,
Paradisi gloria! *

ever be ready to acknowledge, with humility and gratitude, that every good which befalls weak erring man comes from above. It will teach thee also to appreciate the merits of others, even when these seek thine hurt. In thy writings alone thou art permitted to bury my secret; for no one will read them. They, and all thou hast laid down in them for the well-being and happiness of mankind, shall rest quietly with the dead. The dust of solitary libraries will cover them, and thy labours shall lie hidden and useless, until, after long centuries, a few sparks will escape from these ashes, into a luxurious and all-knowing world too wise to be instructed. Thou sighest!-thou groanest ! Be comforted, Leonardo. The evil that it was my duty to announce to thee is now ended. Behold now the brighter prospect, which thy loving master is permitted to display to thee.-Like gold out of the fire, thou goest forth out of this last error. Low unworthy passion shall He breathed his last in the arms of the noble, chivalrous never more stain the purity of thy life. Thou wilt drink | King of France, Francis the First. the bitter cup of persecution, but that will only conduce to thy perfection; and while others excel as artists, thou shalt be great and honourable as a man. Me thou shalt see no more upon earth, for thou wilt not again require my aid; but, in a better land-a land of undisturbed love and felicity-we shall be reunited; and when thy last hour approaches, as I may not myself conduct thee over death's gloomy threshold, I will send thee for a token my favourite flower,-the sacred, snow-white lily; when her fragrance greets thee, remember that it is the odour of Paradise. Then, on the bosom of the noblest of his age, thou shalt sink into thy last slumber, in the arms of a king, as becometh Leonardo da Vinci! Farewell, my son!"

"Oh! tarry a moment longer!" cried Leonardo, "my beloved master! One word more respecting eternity!" In vain! Andreas had disappeared; and when Leonardo opened his eyes, the early dawn of Good Friday glimmered on the walls of his apartment.

Strengthened and refreshed, a new life seemed to open before him. Sentence had been passed upon his picture, but it disturbed him not, for he felt that it was just. But the future which his master had revealed to him awakened in his heart a feeling of noble exultation, softened by a vein of tender melancholy. From that time forward his life was passed in Milan, in uninterrupted peace, and the esteem of his fellow-citizens, until his patron, the Duke, betrayed by his own crooked policy into the hands of Louis XII., was carried prisoner into France. Upon this, Leonardo left Milan, and returned to his darling Florence, where, in company with Michel Angelo Buonarotti, he produced many wonderful pictures. Michel Angelo soon left Florence and went to Rome, where, together with Rafaello Langio, he became engaged in those important works which still shed such lustre on the names of both.

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There were times when Leonardo da Vinci longed also to visit Rome, that his pencil might contribute to its decoration; and for this purpose he travelled thither in the suite of Julian de Medicis. But the enmity of Buonarotti, who had already acquired firm footing there, together with other circumstances, occasioned him so much sorrow and mortification, that he very shortly left Rome. But all these mortifications and persecutions he endured with the greatest mildness; never again degraded his noble art to be the avenger of his private wrongs, and lived, warmly loved and esteemed, to an advanced age. It was then that he received the invitation to visit France. His hand, however, had now lost its firmness; he felt his bodily powers were decayed, and no longer capable of calling into existence the once brilliant picturings of his fancy he consigned his pencil, therefore, to eternal rest; while, honoured and beloved by old and young, high and low, he enjoyed a green old age. And when at length the weakness and infirmities of seventy-five years confined him at Fontainebleau to a sick-bed, and his eyes became dim, his soul longed for the approach

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DUFAVEL'S ADVENTURE IN THE WELL. ONE morning, early in September 1836, as Dufavel, one of the labourers employed in sinking a well at a place near Lyons, in France, was about to descend in order to begin his work, one of his companions called out to him not to go down, as the ground was giving way, and threatened to fall in. Dufavel, however, did not profit by the warning, but, exclaiming, "I shall have plenty of time to go down for my basket first," he entered the well, which was sixty-two feet in depth. When about half way down, he heard some large stones falling; but he nevertheless continued his descent, and reached the bottom in safety. After placing two pieces of plank in his basket, he was preparing to reascend, when he suddenly heard a crashing sound above his head, and, looking up, he saw five of the side supports of the well breaking at once. Greatly alarmed, he shouted for assistance as loudly as he was able; but the next moment a large mass of the sandy soil fell upon him, precluding the possibility of his escape. By a singular good fortune, the broken supports fell together in such a manner, that they formed a species of arch over his head, and prevented the sand from pouring down, which To all appearance, must have smothered him at once. however, he was separated from the rest of the world, and doomed to perish by suffocation or famine. He had a wife and child, who now came into his mind, and the thought of them made him feel still more bitterly his imprudent obstinacy in descending into the well, after being warned of the danger to which he was exposing himself.

But although Dufavel regretted the past and feared for the future, he did not give way to despair. Calm and self-possessed, he raised his heart in prayer to God, and adopted every precaution in his power to prolong his life. His basket was fastened to the cord by which he had descended; and when his comrades above began to pull the rope, in the hope of drawing him up to the surface, he observed that, in their vain efforts, they were causing his basket to strike against the broken planks above him in such a manner, as to bring down stones and other things. He therefore cut the rope with his knife, which he had no sooner done, than it was drawn up by those at the top of the well; and, when his friends saw the rope so cut, they knew that he must be alive, and determined to make every exertion to save him.

The hole made by the passage of this rope through the sand that had fallen in, was of the greatest use to Dufavel: through it he received a supply of fresh air, and, after a while, his friends contrived to convey food to him, and even to speak to him. Of course he was in utter darkness; but he was enabled, in a curious manner, to keep a reckoning of time. A large fly was shut

Literally," When the body shall die, grant that to the soul may be given the glory of Paradise."

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up with him, and kept him company all the time that he remained there. When he heard it buzzing about, he knew that it was day, and when the fly was silent, he knew that it was night. The fly boarded as well as lodged with him he was as careful as he could not to interrupt it while taking its share of his meal; when he touched it, it would fly away, buzzing as if offended, but soon return again. He often said afterwards, that the company of this fly had been a great consolation to him.

More skilful persons than the poor labourers of the village of Champvert were soon engaged in the attempt to liberate Dufavel. The municipal authorities of Lyons procured the assistance of a band of military miners, who, under the direction of experienced officers, began to form a subterranean passage for the purpose of relieving him. Prayers for his safety were daily offered up in the churches of Lyons, and the most intense interest prevailed: it was found necessary to erect a barricade, and station a guard of soldiers round the scene of the accident, to keep off the flocking crowd from the neighbourhood, all eager to obtain news, and see what was being done..

The cavity at the bottom of the well, over which the wooden rafters had so providentially formed a sort of roof, was at first about seven feet in height; but owing to the sand constantly running through, and pressing down the roof from above, by the "third day the space became so small, that the poor man could no longer stand, or even sit upright, but was crushed upon the ground in a peculiarly painful manner, his legs doubled under him, and his head pressed on one side against his left shoulder. His arms, however, were free, and he used his knife to cut away such parts of the wood work as particularly incommoded him, and to widen the hole the passage of the rope had made. Through this hole, by means of a small bottle, soup and wine were let down to him, and, after a few days, what was quite as important, a narrow bag to receive and bring to the surface the constantly accumulating sand, which must soon have smothered him, if this means of removing it had not been devised, and he had not had strength and energy for such a painful labour as the constantly filling and refilling the bag soon became. Of course, any pressure from above would have forced in the temporary roof, so that nothing could be attempted in the way of removing the mass of sand, &c., that had fallen in. They dared not to touch the surface above; but they contrived, by means of a tube, to speak to him. A cousin of his, himself a well-digger, was let down for this purpose. This man spoke to Dufavel, and assured him the miners were making progress, and would soon reach him he inquired after his wife and child, and charged his cousin to tell her from him, to be of good cheer, and not lose heart: at this time he had been a

week in the well.

Day succeeded day, and still the expectations of the miners were deceived. They worked night and day, but such was the treacherous nature of the soil, that neither pickaxe nor shovel could be used: the foremost miner worked upon his knees, inserting cautiously a flat piece of wood into the ground, and afterwards gathering up with his hands, and passing to those behind him, the sand which he thus disturbed. On the twelfth day of his imprisonment, they calculated they were only twelve inches from him, and yet it took them two days longer before they were able to reach him. Every minute the ground was giving way; and it sometimes took them many hours to repair the damage that a single moment had produced. Besides, they felt it necessary to proceed with the utmost caution, when they approached Dufavel; for there was great reason to fear, whenever an opening was made, the mass of sand above his head would fall down and suffocate him. At length, about two o'clock in the morning of Friday, 16th September, they made a small opening into the well, just above his shoulders. The poor man shouted for joy,

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and was able with his knife to assist in extricating himself. He was carefully conveyed along the horizontal gallery, and wrapped in blankets before he was drawn up into the open air. Several medical men were in attendance, and one of them had him conveyed to his house, and put to bed.

We will not attempt to describe Dufavel's happy meeting with his wife, nor the tears of joy which he shed over his infant boy, who did not at first recognise him, muffled up as he was obliged to be to protect him from the cold, and his chin covered with a beard of more than a fortnight's growth. In the evening, he was so well, that Doctor Bienvenu consented to his being conveyed to his own home; and he was accordingly transported thither in a litter, attended by a great concourse of happy and thankful spectators.

PALM LEAVES. Select Oriental Tales.

I. THE PAIR OF SLIPPERS.

THERE once lived in Bagdad a merchant, named Abu-Casem, who was quite notorious for his covetousness. Notwithstanding his great wealth, his clothes were all in rags and tatters. His turban was composed of a large cloth, whose colours were no longer distinguishable; but, above all the other articles of his dress, his slippers attracted everybody's attention. The soles of them were armed with huge nails; the upper leather was composed of as many pieces as a beggar's cloak; for, during the ten years they had been slippers, the cleverest cobblers of Bagdad had used all their skill in fastening the shreds together. Of necessity, therefore, they had become so weighty, that when people wanted to describe anything very heavy, they compared it to Casem's slippers.

As this merchant was one day walking through the great bazaar of the city, a considerable stock of glass was offered to him a great bargain, and he very gladly agreed to purchase it. Some days afterwards, he heard that an unfortunate dealer in precious balms was reduced to sell only rose-water, as a last resource. He turned this poor man's misery to account, bought all his rose-water for half its value, and was consequently in the best of humours.

It is the custom of Oriental merchants, when they have made a successful bargain, to give a feast He thought it more profitable to bestow a little of rejoicing; but this our niggard would not do. extra indulgence upon himself; and therefore he went to the bath, a luxury to which he had not for a long time treated himself. Whilst he was taking off his clothes, one of his friends (so, at least, he called him, but such niggards seldom have a friend) said to him, that it was quite time for him to leave off his slippers, which had made him quite a byeword in the city, and buy a new pair. "I have been thinking of it for some time," answered Casem; "but, when I look well at them, they are not so vice." Speaking thus, he undressed, and went into very bad, but that they may do a little more ser

the bath.

Whilst he was there, the Cadi of Bagdad entered, and because Casem was ready before the Judge, he went out first. He dressed, but sought in vain for his slippers. Another pair stood where his own ought to have been, and our careful man soon per

suaded himself that the friend who had given him such good advice while he was undressing, had made him a present of these new ones. He put them on with much satisfaction, and left the baths with the intention of thanking his friend for them. But, unhappily, the slippers belonged to the Cadi; and when he had finished bathing, his slaves sought in vain for them; they could only find in their stead a miserable pair, which were immediately recognised as Casem's. The porter soon ran after him, and brought him back to the Cadi, as detected in a theft. The Judge, provoked at the unblushing avarice of the old miser, immediately sent him to prison; and, in order to avoid the open shame due to a thief, he had to pay richly: the law condemned him to give the worth of a hundred pair of slippers if he would escape with a whole skin.

As soon as he was safe out of gaol, he revenged himself upon the cause of his trouble. In his rage, he threw the slippers into the Tigris, which flowed beneath his window, so that he might never set eyes upon them again; but it was to be otherwise. A few days afterwards, some fishermen, on drawing up their net, found it unusually heavy: they thought they had gained a treasure; but, alas! nothing was there but Casem's slippers, the nails of which had torn the net so much, that it would take whole days to mend it.

Full of indignation against Casem and his slippers, they threw them in at his window, which was just then open; and as, unluckily, all the flasks of beautiful rose-water which he had bought were neatly ranged beneath the window, those heavy iron foes fell upon them, the bottles were broken, and all the rose-water spilt upon the floor.

slippers was taken into custody, and as this ap-
peared to be a vicious revenge upon the Governor,
he was sentenced to atone for it by paying a larger
fine than either of the foregoing ones. But the
Governor gave the slippers carefully back to him.
"What now shall I do with you, ye accursed
slippers?" said poor Casem.
"I have given you
over to the elements, and they have returned you,
to cause me each time a greater loss; there remains
but one means-now I will burn you."

"But," continued he, shaking them, "you are so soaked with mud and water, that I must first lay you to dry in the sun; but I will take good care you do not come into my house again." With these words he went up to the flat roof of the house, and laid them under the vertical rays of the sun. Yet had not misfortune tried all her powers against him; indeed, her latest stroke was to be the hardest of all. A neighbour's pet monkey saw the slippers, jumped from his master's roof on to Casem's, seized upon and dragged them about. While he thus played with them, the unlucky slippers fell down and alighted on the head of a woman who was standing in the street below. Her husband brought his grievance before the Judge, and Casem had to atone for this more heavily than for aught before, for his innocent slippers had nearly killed one of his fellow-creatures. "Just Judge," said Casem, with an earnestness which made even the Cadi smile, "I will endure and pay all and everything to which you have condemned me, only I ask your protection against those implacable enemies, which have been the agents of all my trouble and distress to this hour-I mean these miserable slippers. They have brought me to poverty, disgrace, ay, even to peril of my life; and who knows what else may follow? Be just, O noble Cadi, and make a determination that all misfortunes which can be clearly ascribed to the evil spirit which haunts these slippers, may be visited upon them, and not upon me.'

Casem's horror, when he entered his apartment, may be better imagined than described. Detestable slippers!" he exclaimed, tearing his beard, "you shall not do me any further mischief." He took a spade, and ran with them into his garden, where he hastily dug a hole to bury his slippers; when, unhappily, one of his neighbours, who had The Judge could not deny Casem's request: he long meditated some mischief against him, hap-kept those disturbers of public and private peace in pened to look through his window, and saw him his own possession, thinking he could give no better hard at work, digging this hole. Without delay, lesson to the miser than this which he had now learnt he ran to the Governor of the city, and told him, as at so much expense, namely, that it is better to a secret, that Casem had found a great treasure in buy a new pair of slippers when the old ones are his garden. This was quite enough to arouse the worn out! Governor's cupidity; and it was all in vain that our miser declared he had not found anything, but had only buried his old slippers. In vain he dug them up again, and brought them forth in presence of the Judge; the Governor had made up his mind to have money, and Casem was obliged to purchase his release with a large sum.

In utter despair, he left the Governor's, carrying his expensive slippers in his hand, while in his heart he wished them far away. "Why," said he, "should I thus carry them in my hand to my own disgrace?" So he threw them into an aqueduct not far from the Governor's palace. "Now," said he, "I shall hear no more of you; you have cost me money enough-away with you from my sight!" But, alas! the slippers stuck fast in the mud of the aqueduct. This was enough; in a few hours the stream was stopped, the water overflowed; the watermen ran together, for the Governor's cellars were inundated, and for all this trouble and misfortune Casem's slippers were answerable! The watermen soon discovered the unlucky cause of the mischief, and as quickly made it known. The owner of the

Poetry.

[In Original Contributions under this head, the Name, real or assumed,
of the Contributor. is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in
Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.]

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.
THOU blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And coloured with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night;
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart,

Bryant.

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