astonishment, wondering "what on earth possessed you to publish such a dry thing-judging of it, as all women do, by the first glance. Then calling

for

Godey," ""Putnam" would have been pitched summarily aside, and slid off upon the floor with as much celerity as did gallant "Old Put." of Revolu tionary memory slide down the stone stairs, when the enemy were after him. The next moment would have found them threading the mazes of some lovestory, or ravished with delight over the latest fashion-plates!

Sir, it is my earnest desire to be read, and I trust I shall not be disappointed. The world dearly loves to see folly shot upon the wing-some hoping to see her fall;

the others ready to greet her with bravuras, can she but shake out the arrow from her side. For my own part, I was never a good shot "on the wing;" and have, therefore, chosen for my target, Folly on a church steeple. I trust the world will take equal interest in watching her struggles there, as when skim

ining the air. For, sir, though I am nervous man, my own voice has a soothing, rather than a hurtful effect, upon my own ears; and to say truly, there is no one more fond of hearing himself talk, than YOUR QUIET MAN.

P.S. I am not sure, but you had best delay publication of this until the steeple is finished- at all events, until I telegraph you that the tubing is put up and the connections with the pit duly made. I foresee that your magazine, when it arrives with this article, is to make a great disturbance among the swearers, and I must warn you to breathe not my name-no, not even to your wife-lest the whole troop should come buzzing about my ears like so many wasps and hornets. In passing the church, which I now do daily, I shall hereafter take the other side of the street, lest Perplex's idea about a thousand of brick should be carried into effect for the special benefit of, &c., Q. M.

A

GREAT while ago,-several hundred years at least, there lived in Cairo a rich merchant, whose name was Abdallah. He had other names beside, as is the custom there, but none that added to his reputation or credit. He was commonly called Abdallah the Rich, and sometimes Abdallah the Miserly.

From boyhood almost he had been engaged in traffic, and always successfully. Shift as it might, the wind was still favorable to some of his ships, and ventures which ruined other merchants overflowed his coffers with gold. The blue Mediterranean reflected the gleam of his sails. Nile, the father of rivers, was shadowed by the swarthy faces of the slaves who rowed his boats, and the burning sands of the desert were trampled by the feet of his caravans. His emissaries were known in the bazaars of Delhi and Damascus, in the spicy forests of Ceylon, and among the pearldivers of the far Indian seas. They even traded, it is said, with the natives of Timbuctoo, that mysterious city whose existence has so often been denied. Ab

dallah, however, had never quitted Cairo, the city of his birth. He knew too well the dangers and hardships of travel to think of exposing his precious person to them. He had but to name a place to his agents, and say "Go there," and they went.

His bazaars were in different parts of the city, but his house, like that of every good Turk, was in the Turkish Quarter. It was three stories in height, and the upper stories projected over the lower ones, casting a shadow even at noonday on the street below. The walls were originally white, with horizontal bars of crimson, like the stripes in a flag; but years had elapsed since they were painted, and they were kept in such bad repair that it was hard to say what color they really were, a smoky yellow, or a muddy red.

Along the front of the mansion, on a level with the floor of the two upper stories, ran a couple of balconies closely shut in with lattice-work. You see such lattices in most oriental pictures; they are made of thin slips of wood like our lath, and cross each other diamond

wise. Save the arch over the door, which was elaborately carved, and illuminated with gold letters-a text from the Koran, there was nothing about the outside of the house to stamp its owner a wealthy man. Inside, however, it was apparent, and all was rich and beautiful.

Like many other mean and selfish men, Abdallah was at heart sensual and luxurious. His floors were carpeted with the richest stuffs of the East, brilliant in dye, and soft as flowers to the feet. Where the marble pavement was seen, as it was in some rooms which were merely strewn with mats, it was cunningly inlaid with mosaics. Couches and divans softer than down lined the walls, and cabinets were filled with chiboques, and beautiful Persian pipes, whose water-bowls were buried in the long coil of their stems.

You passed from room to room by gliding between pillars, and by pushing aside curtains. Over the curtains rose magnificent arches of the finest and costliest workmanship. It would have made you feel proud just to walk beneath them, they were so grand, and yet so airy. Spicy cressets hung from the ceiling, and lanterns of divers colors dangled on golden chains. Pictures and statues there were none, both being forbidden by the Koran, but vases and cups abounded; vases of exquisite pattern, gold and silver, heaped with precious stones, pearls, rubies, and emeralds; and cups which a king might have drained. And Abdallah did drain them daily, so fond was he of his vault of old Greek wine!

But it was not within doors, after all, that the wealth of Abdallah was most manifest, but in his garden, which was the finest in all Cairo. It was situated at the back of the house, and was walled in with a high wall. A forest could not have been more shady and pleasant, so thick and leafy were the trees, palms, acacias, and sycamores, and so cool the winds imprisoned in their green retreats. The walks were hedged with roses and jessamines, and roofed with the branches of fruit trees. Here hung the golden quince, there the bloom-cheeked peach, and there purple plums and red pomegranates.

In the centre of the garden was a kiosk, or Turkish summer-house, a miracle of grace and beauty. It was square, with four pillars on each side, and a fretted dome overhead. The pillars supported Saracenic arches, through which

came gleams of the garden around, and the mingled scent of its flowers. From a black marble urn in the basin of the kiosk gushed a sparkling fountain, a broad silver shaft with a willowy base that dripped back into the urn, and over its rim into the bubbling ripples below.

It was a nook of delight, and a perfect nest of birds, the wondrous birds of the East. Some were inclosed in cages of sandal-wood and pearl, while others were as free as the air in which they wantoned. Peacocks strutted in and out spreading their gorgeous trains; golden pheasants dreamed in the gloom of the dome; parrots chattered and swung on their rings, and Birds of Paradise, with sweeping rainbow tails, flew from perch to perch. Truly it was an enchanted place, that garden and house, and worthy of a better master than Abdallah.

Here Abdallah dwelt year after year. No one shared his enjoyments save his daughter Zuleika, and she only when he was away. There was not much happiness in the house where Abdallah was, he was so selfish and exacting. It was impossible to please him. He thought of no one but himself, and his own gains and losses. He had a wonderful head for accounts, and could reckon untold sums as by instinct. He knew to a fraction, how much every debtor owed him, and how much it cost him to just keep the life in his slaves.

When the business of the day was over, and he had smoked his bubbling pipe, and quaffed his cup of Greek wine, he used to shut himself up in his room, and gloat over his gold. It was his God, and he recognized no other, except he wished to take a false oath. Then he was profuse of his "By Allah's," and "the holy beard of the Prophet!"

Such was the man Abdallah, and such his mode of life up to the morning when our story begins. Having a new scheme of gain on hand that morning, he rose earlier than usual, performed his customary ablutions, and prepared to depart for the market-place. Before setting forth, he allotted their days' work to his servants and slaves; then he charged his daughter Zuleika not to leave the house during his absence; and, finally, after he had made everybody as miserable as he could, he departed, and the door was barred behind him.

It was still early in Cairo, and but few of the better citizens had yet risen. The streets were filled with the poorest

classes, and they jostled Abdallah in passing. He avoided them as much as possible, by picking the least-crowded thoroughfares, and keeping close to the houses. Here sauntered a water-carrier, with his jar poised on his head; and there marched a string of camels, bound for Siout and the desert. Artisans hurried to their workshops, rubbing their eyes as they went; donkeys turned the corners suddenly, and almost knocked him down; and, to crown all, a pertinacious driver insisted on having his custom! He must have been a wag, or a stranger in Cairo, that driver, to have, for a moment, imagined that Abdallah the Miser would ride. He knew the value of money too well, however wearied he might be, to think of spending it in that way. The idea was absurd.

As I said before, the streets were filled with the poorest classes, and the short turn that Abdallah made to reach the market-place led him among their dwellings. He had but little time for observation, so intent was he in hatching his schemes,-but he could not help seeing the filth and misery which surrounded him. The houses were in a ruinous and tumble-down condition; many of them without windows and doors-mere hovels,-and their dwellers were in perfect keeping, lean, sallow, and ragged.

Few of the men were at home, for the day being a festival, promised an abundant alms; but he saw the women in the miserable rooms, and troops of squalid children. Some of the women were busy with household matters, kindling fires for the morning meal, and mending the rents in their gar ments: others sat in the ashes, supine and dejected, their long hair falling over their eyes, and over the infants on their bosoms. These were the mothers and grandmothers: if there were girls in the family they were generally at the windows, ogling the passers-by, and singing ribald songs to entice them in.

One among the number arrested the sight of Abdallah, she was so much like his own child Zuleika. She was just her height, although her figure was frailer; had the same black hair adorned with sequins, and the same lustrous large eyes and long lashes. Zuleika, however, lacked the mingled mirth and melancholy of her counterfeit; nor was she ever seen, like her, at the balcony unveiled. The likeness puzzled Abdallah, but he

knew that Zuleika was safe at home, and his schemes came into his head again so he passed on, and forgot it.

He had now reached a better portion of the city, although he was still in the Beggar's Quarter. He stopped in the public square, and gazed about him. Hia vision was bounded on all sides by the white wall of the city, and the fringe of palms overlooking it. An open country lay on the north-a region of gardens and grain fields; on the south and west, the shining length of the Nile flecked with sails, and the Pyramids that loomed through the haze of the Lybian desert. But the glory of the dawn was in the east, in the serene blue sky, and on the crests of the Mokattam hills, which were tipped with light. The sun had not yet risen, but the domes of the mosques were brightening, and the minarets burned with rosy flames.

The heart of Abdallah was glad within him, he hardly knew why, and he went on his way with a lighter and firmer step. To say that he was depressed by the Beggar's Quarter, or that he pitied its unfortunate dwellers, would show but little knowledge of a nature like his. Still, he felt happy in leaving them behind him, and in comparing his condi tion with theirs.

He drew near the market-place, in which his bazaars were held, when he was accosted by a beggar.

"I am poor," said the beggar, “it is two days now since I have tasted food." "What is that to me?" inquired the merchant.

"Abdallah the Rich, I am poor and hungry, and I demand alms from thee!"

Abdallah started back amazed. He was not accustomed to demands, besides he had never before been mimicked as he was by the beggar; for the voice of the latter was an exact echo of his own. Nor did the imitation stop at his voice: form, features, gait, everything pertaining to Abdallah was reproduced with strange fidelity. It was as if he saw himself in a mirror, or stood beside himself in a dream!

There was a difference though, between the beggar's garments and those of Abdallah. The merchant was dressed as became his station and wealth, in a flowing robe, with a rich sash around his waist, and a jewel-hilted dagger in his belt. His turban was a costly cashmere shawl, and his slippers were heavily embroidered with gold. The beggar was clad in rags which failed to hide his leanness,

and he supported his tottering limbs with a long staff. His face was thin and ghastly, and his eyes, that burned with an unnatural lustre, were deeply sunken in their sockets. He was like Abdallah, and yet unlike; looking not so much as Abdallah did, as Abdallah might, should he by any chance become a beggar.

"Abdallah the Miserly," said the beggar, "you are rolling in abundance, while I am starving with want. Help me, or I die."

You are mistaken in thinking me rich," said the covetous merchant. "True I have the reputation of wealth, but everybody knows the uncertainty of a merchant's business. To day he is rich, to-morrow poor. But, admitting that I am rich, my money is my own. I owe it entirely to my own exertions, and not to others. I cannot help you, so let me pass."

gar.

But I am dying," persisted the beg

· Again I say, what is that to me?" "Listen to me, Abdallah," said the excited beggar, shaking his skinny finger in the face of the merchant. “Listen to me, hard-hearted man, and tremble. You refuse me, your fellow man, bread, and you arrogate to yourself your good fortune. These are deadly sins, and must be atoned for. God gave you prosperity; he can give you adversity as well. And he does; from this hour there is a spell upon you."

The merchant turned in wrath and was about to smite the beggar, when he saw the Captain of the Sultan's Guard approaching in the distance. In spite of himself, he shuddered and turned pale. He did not for an instant believe the beggar's prophecy; but he knew that no man's life was safe, if it were known that he was rich, and the Sultan was in want of money.

"The curse is beginning to work, Abdallah," said the beggar, tauntingly; but Abdallah was too much troubled to hear him. He ran over in his mind all his late business transactions, to see how far the worst had infringed the law; wondered which one of his many agents was most likely to betray him; and whether, if the worst came to the worst, he could manage to escape with life.

"Perhaps I may escape even now," said he to himself: but no-the guard was too close. Besides, he reasoned, if I attempt flight, it will seem to confirm suspicion. But he could not have flown

had he tried, for his feet were rooted to the ground.

He was a grim-looking fellow, the Captain of the Guard, and his manner of arresting Abdallah was not calculated to set the latter at ease. He drew his long sword with one hand, and clutched the merchant by the wrist with the other, while the soldiers sprang upon him from the opposite side, and pinioned his arms behind him. He was then marched off in the direction of the Sultan's palace. As might have been expected, his arrest drew together a crowd. First and foremost came the rabble from the Beggar's Quarter; children who broke off their plays to revile him; women who ran to see if it was their lovers or husbands; and numbers of the beggarmen, whom the news had already reached.

Among others, was the girl who looked so much like Zuleika. It was strange, but she was not in the least like Zuleika now. She had lustrous eyes, long lashes, and black hair, adorned with sequins; but her face was haggard with sensuality, and distorted with indecent mirth. She was no more like Zuleika-the pure and beautiful Zuleika-than a wandering comet, a hell of aerial fire is like the moon, the silver Eden of night.

"This is marvellous, this change,” thought Abdallah; and the beggar coming into his mind, he turned his head to see if the beggar was changed also; and lo! he had vanished.

The guard and their prisoner had now reached the Sultan's palace. It was a holiday in Cairo, and the square was filled with soldiers. Bodies of black troops were drawn up in files on each side, while the centre was filled by the dignitaries of the empire; bashaws of distant provinces, white-bearded old shekhs of desert tribes, and daring Mamalukes. Beside the palace gate, stood two gigantic Nubian slaves, the executioners of the Sultan, one swinging his bowstring, the other poising his immense scymitar.

The gates were thrown open, and the Sultan came forth to judgment. The Commander of the Faithful was mounted on a superb Arab barb, whose neck arched proudly, and whose step disdained the earth. His turban was covered with jewels, and it shone like a constellation under his cloudy plume. His caftan was green, the sacred color, but his sash was deep red. It was an omi

nous color with the Commander of the Faithful, for it generally betokened the shedding of blood. So his court approached him with terror, kissing his robe, and feet, and even the ground before him. "Long life to the Shereef! May God prolong his days!"

Casting his eyes over the prostrate crowd, the Commander of the Faithful saw Abdallah kneeling in the custody of the Captain of the Guard. He sum

moned the latter, and as he drew near, dragging the helpless culprit, beckoned to the executioners. Behold Abdallah between them, in front of the Sultan. "Long life to the Shereef! May God prolong his days!"

"We have heard of this man," said the Commander of the Faithful; "does any here know him? It is said that he is rich, very rich. It is also said that his riches are ill-gotten. If he has wronged any here, even a slave, let the wronged man step forth, and accuse him. By the beard of my father he shall have justice!"

The words of the Sultan passed from mouth to mouth till they reached the ears of a merchant who was passing the palace. Emboldened by the Sultan's permission, he accused Abdallah.

"Commander of the Faithful, the merchant Abdallah owes me five purses of gold, which he refuses to pay. He came to me one day, accompanied by a strange merchant, who, he said, was his friend; and who wished to purchase sandal-wood and gums. I sold him five purses' worth, Abdallah agreeing to pay for the same, in case his friend did not. Twelve moons have passed since then, and I have not seen the merchant, nor will Abdallah pay me the debt."

"Your case is hard," said the Sultan; "but we cannot help you. The law will do you justice, if you can prove your claim. We give you a purse of gold that you may prosecute it freely."

The next accuser was one of the Mamalukes.

"Commander of the Faithful, this shop-keeper lately sold me a sword for a true Damascus blade. I paid him his price without higgling, and went forth to battle with the enemies of the Prophet. We were hard pushed by the accursed Giaours, and fell before them like ripe grain. A boy, whom I could have slain with the wind of a good scimitar, engaged me; and, snapping my sword like a reed, gave me this ugly gash on the cheek. I have no sword now. Here is

the hilt of my famous Damascus blade," and he threw it at the feet of the Sultan's barb; "give me another, Master, and I will punish the lying shop-keeper."

"You are a brave fellow, Mamaluke," said the Sultan, unbuckling his own sword, and handing it to the soldier; "wear this, and smite the Giaours. Leave the shop-keeper to us."

The soldier fell back in the ranks, and the Sultan made a sign to the slave with the bow-string, who seized Abdallah, and prepared to strangle him.

The next accuser was one of the desert shekhs.

"Seven years ago," he said, "there was a famine among my people. The tidings reached Cairo, and this dog sent his agents amongst us loaded with corn, not to relieve our wants, but to rob us of our flocks and herds. He built granaries in our midst, and tortured us with the sight of food which few were rich enough to buy. We implored the assistance of other merchants, and many attempted to help us, but he drove them all from the field, some by bribery, and some by underselling, till, at last, no one would venture against him. The souls of our dead cry out for justice—justice on the corn-selling dog!"

66

"We, too, have a cause of complaint," said the Commander of the Faithful, after a score or two had finished accusing Abdallah. "This jewel," and he plucked one from his turban, was sold us by the merchant for a pure diamond, and it turns out to be a bit of glass. We gave him a thousand purses for what is not worth a piastre. To punish him for the cheat we confiscate his estates for the Prophet's treasury, and we seize his daughter for the imperial Harem. As for the wretch himself he shall become a slave. We give him to your tribe," said the Sultan turning to the desert shekh: "It is just that he should suffer, even as he has made others. The dog is no longer Abdallah the Merchant, but Abdallah the Slave. God is great!"

"Long life to the Shereef! May God prolong his days!"

The Sultan shook the reins of his barb, and rode down the square, accompanied by his bashaws and shekhs. The Mamalukes and black troops remained, together with Abdallah and the executioners. There was no danger now in insulting him, and they made the most of the opportunity. The Mamalukes began by robbing him of everything valuable. One snatched his turban, another his