present case. The other letter was from David Collingwood, and was as follows: "SIR,- As it ain't in my power to say what I meant to say when I see you, along of my feeling so badly about this matter, I write this to inform you that my wife has no portraits of her first husband, for he was very badly marked with small-pox, and never would be taken, and she says he had no brothers nor sisters, and his parents are not living. Herewith you will find her marriage lines. She has always kept herself respectable, and do assure me she never did wrong in her life but in the one thing you know of. And she humbly begs your pardon. I am, your obedient, humble servant, "DAVID COLLINGWOOD." A baby hand was on his knee again. He looked down; tears were on the little flushed cheeks; the long, slow chase had been useless. Boy did want doggy," he sobbed. Mr. Johnstone felt a sudden yearning, and a catch in his throat that almost overcame him. He took up the child, and pressed him to his breast. For a moment or two the child and the man wept together. He soon recovered himself; it was a waste of emotion to suffer it to get the mastery now; there would come a day when he and his wife would weep to gether-that was the time to dread. He must save his courage, all his powers of consoling, flattering, encouraging, for that; the present was only his own distress it was nothing. There was rejoicing in the nursery upstairs that morning; the baby Aird, as he was called, had come to spend the day. He made himself perfectly at home; the little Johnstones produced all their toys for him. "What a credit he is to his mother!" said the nurse. "His clothes quite new, and almost as handsome as our children's." David Collingwood, as he led his wife to the omnibus which was to take them home, could hardly believe his own good fortune. The child, "the encumbrance" that he had perforce taken with her, and had meant to do his duty by, had, contrary to all sober hope, been received into another man's house, and there he had been told to leave him. His wife, though confused and frightened, did not seem to feel any distress at parting with him. "Is this all?" he repeated many times to himself as they went on. "Is this over?" "Is she truly going to get off scot-free?" If so, the sooner he took her away the better. At the other side of the world he felt that he should have more chance of forgetting that, which while he remembered it made his love for his young wife more bitter than sweet to him. "Is it over?" No, it was not quite their own cottage door. A hansom cab over. They got out of the omnibus at stood there, and Mr. Johnstone was paying the cabman. He followed them in. Mr. Johnstone, not unnaturally, declined Maria Collingwood sank into a chair. one; he stood with a note-book in his hand. "If you've-you've altered your mind," Maria began, "I'm willing, as is my duty, to take back the child." David Collingwood darted an indignant look at her, but Mr. Johnstone took no notice of the speech. Various questions were asked her, and answered; the husband weighed the effect of her answers as each was given: "He can make nothing of that; "He can make little of that; "He sees she speaks the truth there;" “He'll not give the boy back for that!" He was mean, as he had said, but not base. The little sister Mr. Johnstone wanted her address. She was in a place : the address was given. "Where was she when your mother came home with the child?" "She was in a place then, and till a month after." Donald "Can you prove that?" The matter was gone into. Johnstone hoped then for a few moments, and David Collingwood feared; but their respective feelings were soon reversed, for Maria did prove it. The sister was in a place as kitchen-girl at a school, and did not come home till it broke up for the holidays; consequently, she never saw the child till after her mother had brought him home to Kensington. "Where did Mrs. Leach live?" Her address was given. It was asserted that she had never known there was more than one child under her roof; consequently, that she could not have harbored any sort of suspicion bearing on the case. "Where was the girl who had carried one of the children out?" David Collingwood had ascertained that she was dead. Mr. Johnstone stood long pondering on this matter; finally he took David Collingwood with him to the cottage of Mrs. Leach, and asked a few questions, which abundantly proved the truth of what Mrs. Aird had declared. He therefore said nothing to excite her astonishment; but gave her a present of money and withdrew. Donald Johnstone came back to London in the course of the morning, and found the nurse who had lived in his family when the little Donald was born. She was very comfortably married, and he agreed with her to take Master Don ald's foster-brother under her charge for a little while. Mrs. Aird, he informed ner, had married again, and he intended to be good to the child. Less could hardly be said; and what his own servants might think of this story, he considered it best to leave to themselves. In the course of time, Mrs. Johnstone perfectly recovered, the London season was just over, and the quietest time of year was coming on. The worst, though he did not know it, had already been endured. His anxiety as to its effect on her had so wrought on him that she had discovered it, and a heavy portion of it was already weighing on her own heart. It was necessary that she should now be told, and she was so fully conscious that a certain something she knew not what was the matter, that when he said she had something to hear which would disturb her, she was quite relieved to find that he now thought her strong enough to know the worst. She soon brought him to the point. It was not his health; it was nothing in his profession; it was no pecuniary loss: but when she saw his distress, she was sure that more than half of it was for her, and she did her very best to bear it well for his sake. And yet, when the blow fell, it was almost too much for her. She had all a woman's horror of doubt. Let her have anything to endure but doubt; yet doubt had come into her house, and, perhaps, forever was to reign over her. She, however, took the misfortune very sweetly and bravely. In general, the woman bears the small misfortunes and continued disappointments of life best, and the man bears best the great ones. Here the case was reversed: the woman bore it best, but that was mainly because of the supreme comfort of her husband's love and sympathy. If we consider women whose lot it is to inspire deep affection, we shall sometimes find them, not those who can most generously bestow, but those who can most graciously receive. All is offered; they accept all without haggling about its possible endurance; their trust in affection helps to make it lasting, and their own comfort in it is so evident as to call it forth and make it show itself at its best. Donald Johnstone's wife had a disposition that longed to repose itself on another. Her peculiar and almost unconscious tact made her seem generally in harmony with her surroundings. All she said, and did, and wore, appeared to be a part of herself; there was a sweet directness, a placid oneness about her, which inspired belief and caused contentment. "Why am I so calm, so satisfied, so well with myself in this woman's presence?" men might have asked themselves; but they seldom did, perhaps because her loving, placid nature was seasoned in a very small degree with the love of admiration. She had a gracious insight into the feelings of others, and used it not to show off her own beauties, but to console them for defects in themselves. Many people show us our deficiencies by the light of their own advantages, but Donald Johnstone's wife showed rather how insignificant those deficiencies must be since she who was so complete had never noticed them. A sincere and admired woman, her firm and open preference for her own made her own forever satisfied; yet she always gave others a notion that she felt she had reason to trust them, sense to acknowledge their fine qualities, and leisure to delight in them. Reverend in mind, and, on the whole, submissive, she yet was in the somewhat unusual position of a wife who knows that her husband's religious life is more developed and more satisfying than her own. Master Donald's foster-brother was now sent for to dine in the nursery again, and delighted the nurse and her subordinate by the way in which he made himself at home, tyrannizing over the little Donald, picking the grapes out of his fat little hand, and trotting off with them while he sat on the floor and helplessly gazed at his nurse. But "Run after the little boy, then, Master Donny," cried the nursery maid; "why, he ain't near so big as you are! the little Donald placidly smiled; either he had not pluck yet, or he had not sense for contention; and, in the mean time, the little Lancy took from him and collected for himself most of the toys, specially the animals from a Noah's ark, which he carried off in his frock, retiring into a corner to examine them at his leisure. Mr. Johnstone came up-stairs soon after the nursery dinner, and said the little Lancy might come with him and see Mrs. Johnstone; so the child's pinafore was taken off, and, with characteristic fearless ness, he put his hand in "gentleman's "ing in the other direction. hand and was taken down. was almost an assertion of her opinion, for the little Donald had only reached the age of two years, two months, and a fortnight. Mr. Johnstone heard it almost with dismay; his own opinion was drift Mrs. Johnstone was in the dressingroom; her husband, having considered the matter, had decided to spare her all waiting for the child, all expectation. He opened the door quietly; she did not know this little guest was in the house; she should guess his name, or he should tell it her. She had just sent the nurse down to her dinner, and was lying on a couch asleep the baby in her bassinet beside her. Fast asleep as it seemed; yet, the moment her husband came in with the child in his arms, she started as if the thought in his mind had power over her, and, opening her eyes, she looked at them with quiet, untroubled gaze. The time she had been waiting for was manifestly come. She rose, and slowly, as if drawn on, came to meet her husband, with her eyes on the little child, who was occupied with the toys which he still held in his hand. Neither the husband nor the wife spoke; she came close, laid her hand on the child's little bright head, and her cheek against his. "Lady did kiss Lancy," said the child; then, looking attentively at her, and perhaps approvingly, he pursed up his rosy mouth and proffered a kiss in his turn. Lady must not cry," he next said, almost with indifference; then, as if to account for her tears, he continued, "Lady dot a mummy gone in ship-gone all away." 66 She dried her eyes and held out her arms. "Will Lancy come to lady?" Of course he would; she took him, and sat down with him in her lap on the couch. "I know how this will end," she exclaimed, holding him to her bosom with yearning unutterable. Then she burst into a passion of tears, kissing the little hands and face, and bemoaning herself and him with uncontrollable grief. grief. "O Donald! how shall I bear it? She was bearing it much better than he could have expected. He was almost overcome himself, thinking how cruelly she had been treated, but he had nothing to say. He could only be near, standing at the end of the couch, leaning over her, to feel with her, and for her. ent?" "No." "I know how this will end," she reDoes Lancy cry for his mummy ? peated. I never will love my own less; she asked the child, who was still em- he is so dear to every fibre of my heart." braced between them. He shook his head. 66 Why not? I feel easier, love, now I have seen him," she murmured; "our children are not like him. Why not, sweet baby boy?" she repeated. "'Cause boy dot a horse and two doggy." He opened his hand and displayed this property. Nothing more likely than that this infantile account of himself was true. The animals from the ark had driven all the mother he knew of clean out of his baby heart. "He talks remarkably well for two years and a quarter," she said, and that "He is most dear to us both." "But this one has come so near to me already, and the nearness is such a bitter pain-such pain. (Oh, you poor little one!) I know it will end in my so loving him, from anxiety and doubt, that I shall not be able to bear him long out of my sight." "All shall be as you wish, my Stella," said the husband; but he thought, "You are far happier than I, for it will end — I know it will-in your loving both the boys as if they were your own; whilst I feel already that, if the shadow of a doubt remains, I shall not deeply love either." From The Spectator. were men of the first intellectual rank, almost men of genius, great captains, great rulers, great conquerors, but only ASIA knows nothing of European his- this one's name - for Saladin was not a tory, its knowledge being almost confined caliph - has struck root in western memto the name of Alexander-"Secunder, ory. In a more shadowy, but equally the Hero," as he is called there and magnificent way, he is as well known as Europe knows almost as little of the his- Solomon. There was, however, neither tory of Asia. The savants of the West in his history or his character enough of know everything, of course, and the edu- separateness to account for the distinccated class in England has read Gibbon; tion. Haroun had no relation to Eubut were it not that all the writers deemed rope beyond a ceremonial correspondence inspired were Asiatics, and that the career which he kept up with Charlemagne. He of one little Syrian tribe is read in every never alarmed, or benefited, or interested schoolroom of Christendom, the popular the West. He was a vigorous ruler, but knowledge of Asiatic personages and peo- his victories over the slowly dying Greek ples would be nil. The Western peoples, Empire were no greater than the victories as a body, do not know any Asiatic writer of many a predecessor and successor; whatever outside the two Testaments; and his triumphs in Africa, which were and of the dynasties, the heroes, the really important to Mahommedanism, and statesmen of the continent and Asia riveted its chain on Egypt and the southhas been marvellously rich in all three- ern shore of the Mediterranean, were they have acquired or retained but the probably scarcely known, except perhaps most indefinite idea. Of the earlier rulers to Charlemagne's advisers. He made of of western Asia, they have heard of only Baghdad a magnificent capital, the centre two, Semiramis, the first woman ever of western Asia; but Europeans scarcely crowned; and Darius, he whom Alexan- went there, and of his buildings and his der conquered and dispossessed. Of the splendor only a vague tradition remains. series of dynasties which founded, built The Mahommedan world recalls him as a up, and preserved that marvellous organ- second Solomon, the most magnificent ization of China, which still to a third of and wise of mankind; but except that he the human race seems unimprovably per- had a keen eye for ability, and, like all fect, they know absolutely nothing, not great Mahommedan sovereigns, sought it their names, not their distinctions, not among the lowest, he was very like many their feats. They know that one of them another caliph,- -a brave and audacious built the mightiest wall in the world, a ruler, who did justice when it could be wall which is a wonder of engineering done dramatically and suddenly, but who and of durability, and that is all they was governed first of all by his own cadefinitely recollect. Of the group of dy prices, and became at last, like the early nasties which sprang from the loins of Cæsars and later moguls, half mad with Jenghiz Khan a man as original as drink, voluptuousness, and the intoxicaAlexander, with Napoleon's capacity for tion of his own power. He pardoned for organization they never heard a name, the sake of a jest, and executed to avenge unless it be that of Timour, and are as a sarcasm. He was not exceptionally little aware that his descendants ruled cruel enough to create a tradition, such as Russia for two hundred and forty years, lingers even outside Russia round the as well as China and all the countries be- name of Ivan the Terrible, for his one tween them, as that the standard of the exceptional act, the slaughter of the BarMutiny of 1857 was the name of the heir mecide family, who had done so much for of one of the branches of his stock. The him, though it horrified his court, has not great mogul was but one of Jenghiz's dimmed his name in Asiatic eyes, and throned descendants. Of the founders or was not an act of unusual atrocity. Prolegislators of great creeds, Confucius, fessor Palmer, we see, in the admirable Gautama, Munoo, Mahommed, the last sketch he has just published of the caliph,* only is more than a shadow to them; and adheres to the idea that Haroun had reof the successors of the latter, the long ceived some indignity from his vizier, line of caliphs who conquered the Roman Giaffar - we keep the popular spelling world and broke up its civilization, and so and acted from wounded pride of family; nearly reduced Europe to hopeless slavery, but he himself gives illustrations of the they have retained but a single name, that of the fifth of the Abbasides, Haroun Alraschid of Baghdad. Many of them By Professor E. H. Palmer. London: Marcus Ward and Co. 1880. The New Plutarch Series- Haroun Alraschid. - Barmecides' demeanor which no absolute | schemes for the government of Indiasovereign in Asia would tolerate, more where, to this hour, half the officials especially one who may have known that clamor for the ruler who "sits in the his great servant was in secret not only gate," and remedies wrongs by pure volian "infidel" as regards Mahommedan- tion, unshackled by any law and it is ism, but a determined idolator, adhering this which Haroun fulfils. He, with his always to the faith of the fire-worshippers. vast wealth, and endless profusion, and That suspicion has always attached tra- innumerable slaves, and absolute power, ditionally to the Barmecides, and would and caprice so permanent that caprice account for Haroun's otherwise unintelli- seems in him natural, and the rules of gible caprice in ordering that though right and wrong inapplicable to him, — Giaffar might be wedded to the caliph's Haroun, with the skilful vizier, Giaffar, sister, the marriage must never be con- and the black executioner, Mesrour, alsummated. No sincere Mussulman - ways by his side, and invested with the and Haroun was that- can ever be quite invisible but resistless authority before so mad with family pride as Haroun is which, when he reveals himself, the greatrepresented to have been, though he est and the humblest alike tremble, is the would feel a deep, superstitious horror ideal caliph, and the caliph is the ideal lest there should be one of his race with monarch of the East. His pomp and his infidel blood in his veins. The whole secret wanderings, his wild fits of cruelty story of Giaffar's fate, admirably related and wilder fits of mercy and justice; his by the professor, shows a man moved by generosity, unburdened by considerations jealousy, indeed, of his subject's power of policy; his license, which knows of no and riches -as Henry VIII. was moved restraint, yet seems half-innocent, from by Wolsey's - but struggling throughout, the total absence of possible law or limit, even while giving the orders for a series are all in exact accord and harmony of murders, with a deep affection and with a pre-existing conception, which his respect, overmastered by some secret im- example has strengthened, but did not pulse of greater force than jealousy. solely create, and are therefore all welIndeed, while openly expressing his vexa-comed with such pleasure, that Englishtion at the Barmecides' pomp and riches, Haroun admitted afterwards that his motive was a secret to all but himself, and must remain one,- a remark which the secret infidelity of the house of Barmek, a house of hereditary guardians of the sacred fire, would exactly explain. Haroun dared not acknowledge to the Mahommedan world that he had so trusted and honored infidels. It is neither through his splendor, nor his originality of character, nor his capricious cruelty, that Haroun Alraschid has become immortal in western Europe, nor even through his position as the original hero of the only Oriental legends with which the European mind is familiar. Without the "Arabian Nights," he would, of course, have remained unknown; but there are other heroes in those stories nearly as prominent, who, nevertheless, are comparatively unregarded. It is because Haroun, as represented in those legends, realizes more completely than any other human being the European conception of what an Asiatic ruler must be and should be, that he has obtained so personal a hold upon men's minds. There is such a conception, little as Europe knows of the East, a conception so profound that it daily affects all French schemes for the government of Algeria, and English men feel nothing absurd in the hero of the "Arabian Nights "at best, a half-mad despot, with some impulse, when not thwarted, towards benevolence - being hymned by Tennyson, and repeat to themselves the refrain, " For it was in the golden prime of good Haroun Alraschid," with an enjoyment not wholly due to melody. They are conscious of a liking for this magnificent and bizarre figure, this Henri Quatre of Asia released from European limitations, which is not wholly due, as Tennyson half suggests, to the excited fancy of infancy, but in part, at least, arises from a subtler source. The European has rooted the Asiatic strain nearly out of his thought, but not out of his imagination, and Haroun of Baghdad occupies a grand place in the life he leads in day-dreams. Who, good or bad, would not be Haroun for a few days, and give for a few hours full range to caprice, though the caprice were to wander, undetected but all-powerful, redressing all wrongs without tedious discussion, or slow toil, or exhausting effort, testing all characters with sudden wealth or momentary misfortune, realizing every wish, be it for good or evil, by a whisper to Giaffar or Mesrour? Let the friend be exalted and the enemy pass from earth, as we stroll through the moonlight, conscious of a |