sands on his bare head, and filled his mouth with the dust, as he buried his furrowed face in the earth. Then, as if inspired with new vigour, he started on his feet, and striking furiously about with his staff, at length dealt a blow which laid his dog dead at his feet, and essayed to pass forward on the way. In a few moments he missed his accustomed guide, and, passing his hand along the string till it reached the dog at the other end, he ascertained that he was dead. The conviction appeared to bring him back to himself a little while. He raised the poor animal in his arms, caressed, kissed, and mourned over it as over a lost child. The momentary energy of madness subsided into helpless imbecility, and death closed the scene. The old maniac and his dog lay by the side of each other.

Miserable man!" exclaimed Benhadar, lost in the scene; "miserable man! but Allah be praised, his sufferings are at an end!"

"His sufferings are not at an end, they are just beginning," cried the genius. "Knowest thou that wretched old

man ?"

"Alas! no," replied the merchant, “how should I know him?"

""Tis the same wretch thou sawest stab the sleeping stranger in the rocky dell; 'tis the same wretch thou didst behold revelling anong robbers and lascivious women; and that wretch is Benhadar, of Balsora."

Benhadar stood for a while stiffened with horror, unable to withdraw his eyes from the wretched old beggar, whom he saw taken up rudely, thrown into a cart, and buried in the Potters'-field among outcasts. At length a thought seemed to strike him, and he exclaimed, exultingly,

"Allah be praised! I know all this beforehand, and will take measures in time to avoid these calamities. Blessed are those who are wise in the future!"

Presumptuous fool!" answered the genius: "dost thou believe that to escape from evil it is only necessary to forsee it?-dost thou think fate is a spaniel, to obey thy will, and crouch at thy bidding. Know, O wretched merchant! that thou hast gained by thy knowledge nothing but the misery of anticipating what thou canst not avoid. Allah has vouchsafed,

as the descendant of his prophet, to let thee see to what thou art doomed; but not even for the prophet himself will he alter that doom."

As the genius uttered these terrible words, he disappeared, leaving the merchant in despair. He joined his family, and received their caresses in silent agony; for he remembered the old woman of the desert, the adventure of the sacred standard, the scene of the pirates, and, last of all, the murderer-beggar-maniac. He wandered whole days in the solitudes of the tombs, without the city gates, whence he returned only to weep over his children. His wife tenderly inquired what was the matter with him, his children sought by a thousand caresses and tender assiduities to make him smile, and his friends condoled with him in his misfortunes. All availed nothing; he could not endure the present for his anticipations of the future, and gradually sunk into the abyss of despair-enjoying nothing-hoping nothing.

One day, he sat in the same spot from which he had beheld the horrible scenes of his future state, recalling them, one by one, in sad succession to his shrinking memory,

"O Allah!" at length he exclaimed, in the bitterness of his soul, "why cannot I die? It is better to perish, than thus to live!"

"Who calls?" cried the same terrible voice he had heard in the same spot, at the same hour, exactly a year before. He looked, and saw the same majestic figure gradually evolving itself from the dark mist. "Who calls?"

"The most miserable of men," answered the merchant. "What wantest thou, Benhadar ?"

"To die."

"Art thou then tired of thy present existence?"

"No-but of the future. Take me, O Allah! from this miserable life!"

Thy wish is granted," cried the genius: "Behold!" Benhadar looked, and saw the angel of death approaching towards him, clothed in all his terrors. He shook his terrible dart, and held an empty hour-glass to show that his sand was run out. Lightning was in his bright sunken eye, that shone like a lamp in some dark recess, and his lip was curled in scorn of weak mortality. In his train followed the terrible ministers of his wrath-disease, writhing in agony,-remorse,

devouring his own heart,--despair, turning his dagger upon himself,-fever, counting his quickening pulses, and old age lagging in the rear, looking wistfully behind, as if meditating to skulk away, and suffer yet a little longer the lingering nothingness of a burthensome existence. The merchant covered his face to shut out these appalling spectres.

"Art thou ready?" cried the genius.

"Not yet-not yet," replied Benhadar; "I wish to settle my affairs, to take leave of my wife and children, and to beseech the prophet to bless them."

"It is too late now-death cannot wait thy time: at this moment millions of breathing mortals have their hours numbered-fate cannot stop for thee-prepare!"

The angel of death advanced towards the shrinking merchant, who essayed to fly, but was rivetted to the spot; each step he approached, the heart of the merchant beat weaker and weaker, and the intervals of breathing became lengthened; his knees trembled the cold clamy dews condensed upon his forehead in big round drops-his eyes grew dim— bis breath was as if it came from some icy cavern-and, as the angel touched him with his dart, he sunk to the earth without sense or motion.

In this state he was carried into his house, and laid upon a couch, where he remained for some hours. At length he awoke to a perception of his present situation; but of the past, so far as it related to the genius, the pageantry of the vast mirror, and the visit of the angel of death, he remembered nothing:-all had faded from his memory as if it had never been. Benhadar rose from his couch, and whatever misfortunes afterwards befel him, they were not embittered by the horrors of anticipation.

"The moral of thy story is just," said the Bashaw of Smyrna; "and yet I wish I knew what the commander of the faithful wants of me at Constantinople." So saying, he mounted his camel, and proceeded on his journey at the head of his attendants.

J. K. P.

ON VIEWING THE DEAD BODY OF A
BEAUTIFUL INFANT.

There is a smile upon that cheek-
Those lips would seem almost to speak;
Calm is that look, that brow is fair,
The flaxen ringlet wantons there!
And well those features sweet we trace,
Which hover on that angel face;
He seems enwrapt in slumber deep-
Ah, Edwin! 'tis thy long, last sleep!

The chill of death is on that cheek-
Those lips shall never silence break;
No soul is in that cherub smile,
Illusive charm, and lovely guile!
The eye has shot its final spark,
The liquid, lustrous orb, is dark!
And swift must every feature fly
From the soft face of infancy!

And now the kiss of agony,
"Whose touch thrills with mortality,"
The Parents give-but who shall tell
The anguish of that fond farewell!
Yet, from the grave's mysterious night
That form again shall spring to light.
E'en now in yon eternal rest,
The unearthly mansion of the blest,
The uncloth'd Spirit joins the hymn
Swelling from burning seraphim:
And were our passport to the skies
As his-then speed each hour that flies,
And Earth, let each successive Sun

"Swift rise-swift set-be bright, and done."

THE CRUSADER.

The Christian forces had been lying before Antioch so long that the besiegers and the besieged were equally tired of a contest which brought advantage to neither. Their mutual wants led these fierce enemies to a better understanding than anything else could have done; and a truce was agreed upon, that the horrors of a continual and sanguinary warfare might at least have some respite. A treaty was made, and solemnly sworn to; religious ceremonies ratified the compact; and there was no doubt that its stipulations would be fulfilled just so long as it suited neither of the parties to violate them.

The gates of Antioch were at once thrown open, and an unrestricted intercourse took place between the army of the Christians and the defenders of Antioch. The leaders of the Croises wandered at will throughout the city, and their presence soon became so familiar as to excite scarcely any observation.

Among the boldest warriors in the field, and among the idlest saunterers when quiet times prevailed, was Sir Stephen Vermandois. By way of beguiling the heavy hours which the cessation of his ordinary military duties had thrown upon his hands, he amused himself by wandering, unattended, through the streets of Antioch. One evening he had been walking onward, opening his eyes, and wondering at every thing that came in his way, when he suddenly found himself in a quarter of the city much less populous than any he had before seen. The houses were surrounded by walls, and were less thickly placed than those in other parts of the city. There was a kind of privileged look about them, and Sir Stephen concluded, without hesitation, that they must be inhabited by the better order of the people of Antioch.

As he walked beside the garden walls of one of them, which appeared to be of great extent, he heard the voice of women; and, without being impertinent, he was willing enough to meet with some adventure which might vary the tediousness of his present life. He listened again; he was sure it was a woman's voice he heard; and, with the help of a palm tree, the tall branches of which afforded him the means of climbing, he was soon on the top of the wall. Below he