"Reverie" is by far the most pleasing of the compositions. "Sparkling Diamonds," by A. Aréni, is a somewhat bold title for a set of quadrilles, but we consider the name so well supported that we shall enlist them into our choice volume of dance music : we heartily recommend them as alike desirable by the musical finger and "fantastic toe." "Jesus wept" is a sacred song, by Mrs. Mackinlay, and rather a delicate subject to touch, but the music, though somewhat eccentric, goes well with the words, and the composition admits of much pathos in expression, but the singer must be careful in not being too fast. "The Dream of Brighter Days," by Mary Gye, is a ballad far beyond the average of those put forth every day, simple, flowing, and suited to most voices. "Thou art near me again," by G. Linley, is an especial favourite with us,-one of those bits of melody which haunt our brain in the most pertinacious manner, and we warmly recommend this song to all who love sweet music. Now we take those published by Hammond, 9, New Bond Street. The "Madeline Valse," by Brinley Richards, is showy and effective; the substance of the Valse pleases us very much, but is it not a pity to insert so many passages of mere dislocated scales, thereby giving the composition a commonplace character? we consider this composer so competent to demand admiration by dint of "himself," that we feel disappointed when he descends to borrow from the lesson-book. "Lady de Mey," by George Linley, is a ballad that every one would listen to, being quaint as well as clever. "Weep for the Lonely," by the same composer, is a somewhat melancholy ditty, written by the gifted L. E. L., and for those who like to sit under a cypress tree, and join measures with some mateless ringdove, why it is a charming specimen of melodious sentiment. "Romance sans Paroles," by Henri Cramer, is a very fascinating morceau; these "songs without words" have generally hitherto been too much for everyday performers, and their beauty has thus been comparatively unknown, but here we have an exquisite composition divested of all severe difficulties, and can recommend it cordially. We now take up those issued by Campbell, Ransford, & Co., New Bond Street. The "Annie Laurie March" is pretty, well marked, and suited for young players. The "Galop de Bravura," and "Corbeille de Fleurs Valse," by Wilhelm Kuhe, are among the most brilliant compositions we have ever heard, a little "tiresome" to achieve, but well worth the trouble. "Gertrude," by Jules Sprenger, is another "song without words," with an expressive theme cleverly rendered. The " 'Koh-i-noor Polka," by Mrs. Andrews (Williams, 123, Cheapside), is a very charming composition; it requires "trying over,' as school-girls say, but is well worth playing, and well worth dancing to. And now we have five varieties of musical eulogies of Kossuth, in the shape of Songs and Marches. Spirit of St. Cecilia! is this the way we blend Apollo and patriotism? greater trash never was published,bombastic doggrel, stilted sentiment, and noisy commonplace, form the constituents of the pages, and in charity we decline giving the names attached to them. What have we here? "Dead Leaves," words and music by Eliza Cook (Charles Cook, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street). We cannot be at the bar and on the judgment-seat at the same time, but it may not be uninteresting to some of our readers to tell how the simple thing had life. We were left alone, some time ago, in the old wood where we spent a great portion of our childhood in the young-lady-like pursuits of rabbit-hunting, acorn-gathering, and squirrelcatching, to the discomfort of an affectionate mother, and the great delight of "Pincher" and "Dido." The enjoyment we had in kicking about the dead leaves then was something of Elysium, but as we stood this autumn among the dry and russet heaps drifting about us, a shadow fell upon our spirit, which embodied itself in a spontaneous lyrical fragment; and when our friends found us, we imagined they looked at our eyes rather more than was pleasant. We have lately frequently caught ourselves humming the words to an extemporaneous tune, and at last we set the notes down, and here is the result,-let our kind friends think of it as they like. And now, having had a long morning's work over our piano-forte, we are rather glad to hear Punch's drum and pipes before the window, fully intending to patronize him with our personal appearance and an odd sixpence. THE TRUE POET A GREAT GIFT. A poet is a Heaven's gift to a generation. How like breathing free pure mountain air is a half hour in their atmosphere! We love, weep, tremble for the once without one throb of selfishness marring the sacred, holy, and spiritualizing influence of emotion upon our nature,-forget our sadnesses and woes, and envies and ambitions. We are noble, tender, generous, heroic, according as the poet-mesmeriser lays his finger on our brain; and we rise by magnetic sympathy to the level of his creations, and yet more to the level of himself. The poet shrouds us in his own divinity, and earth for a while is hidden and forgotten. Even when we return to the sordid and selfish, light still rests upon the countenance that has gazed face to face upon the poet. Alas! that it should so soon vanish. Still, if he can divinize clay but for a moment, the poet has not lived in vain. Why then should the critics come and crush the beautiful-winged Psyche in their wooden hands, impale it,-not on pins, but pens,- -to number the many eyes with which it looks out on infinity, the spots on its wings, and anatomize and microscopize, and tear it in pieces to ascertain why it pleased us? Is it not enough that we are pleased? The most exquisite things in nature please, we know not why; sunset, a still lake, the roaring rush of ocean on the rocks, the mist rolling up a mountain, the golden and green light glancing through the undulating leaves of a forest-flowers, odours, music, motion graceful as a feathery acacia, or terrible as a tempest-all in which there is beauty, beauty alone, without the utility that at once connects an object with earth, pleases with the impossibility of defining wherefore. They speak to the soul, and the soul comprehends their language, though material organs cannot express the subtle spiritual ideas they awaken. It is a silent emotion of which the dilated up-raised eye, the parted lips, and cheek pale with the presence of the Spiritual, are the only interpreters. So in a poet, it is only what is earthly we can criticize. What is beautiful our souls feed on, but it escapes all analysis. It is the vital germ which cannot be detected, anatomize as we will.-Nation. GLANCES. Perhaps the short hasty gazes cast up any day in the midst of business in a dense city at the heavens, or at a bit of tree seen amid buildings,-gazes which partake almost more of a sigh than a look,-have in them more of intense appreciation of the beauties of Nature than all that has been felt by an equal number of sight-seers enjoying large opportunities of sight-seeing, and all their time to themselves. Like a prayer offered up in everyday life, these short, fond gazes at Nature have something inconceivably beautiful in them.-Companions of my Solitude. (ORIGINAL.) UNDER THE MISTLETOE. CHRISTMAS SONG. UNDER the mistletoe, pearly and green, Glowing as though they had never been cold. Mingle the spirits that long have been twain; Leaves of the olive-branch twine with it still, While breathings of Hope fill the loud carol strain. Yet why should this holy and festival mirth In the reign of Old Christmas-tide only be found? Hang up Love's mistletoe over the earth, And let us kiss under it all the year round! Hang up the mistletoe over the land Where the poor dark man is spurned by the white; Hang it wherever Oppression's strong hand Wrings from the helpless Humanity's right. And let us kiss under it all the year round! ELIZA COOK. FEMALE CHARACTER AND QUALIFICATIONS. A defender of her sex might name many whose achievements in government, in science, in literature, and in art, have obtained no small share of renown. Powerful and sagacious queens the world has seen in plenty, from Zenobia down to the Empresses Catherine and Maria Theresa. In the exact sciences, Mrs. Somerville, Miss Herschel, and Miss Zornlin have gained applause; in political economy, Miss Martineau; in general philosophy, Madame de Stael; in politics, Madame Roland. Poetry has its Tighes, its Hemanses, its Landons, its Brownings; the drama, its Joanna Baillie; and fiction its Austens, Bremers, Gores, Dudevants, &c., without end. In sculpture, fame has been acquired by a princess; a picture like "The Momentous Question," is tolerable proof of female capacity for painting; and on the stage it is certain that women are on a level with men, if they do not even bear away the palm. Joining to such facts the important consideration, that women have always been, and are still, placed at a disadvantage in every department of learning, thought, or skill; seeing that they are not admissible to the academies and universities in which men get their training; that the kind of life they have to look forward to does not present so great a range of ambitions; that they are rarely exposed to that most powerful of all stimuli, necessity; that the education custom dictates for them is one that leaves uncultivated many of the higher faculties; and that the prejudice against blue-stockings, hitherto so prevalent amongst men, has greatly tended to deter women from the pursuit of literary honours ;-adding these considerations to the above facts, we shall see good reason for thinking that the alleged inferiority of the feminine mind is by no means self-evident.-Social Statics. DIAMOND DUST. NATURE makes us poor only when we want necessaries, but custom gives the name of poverty to the want of superfluities. HE who indulges his sense in any excesses renders himself obnoxious to his own reason, and to gratify the brute in him displeases the man, and sets his two natures at variance. WHATEVER is, is right, if only men are bent to make it so, by comprehending and fulfilling its design. To become an able man in any profession whatever, three things are necessary,-nature, study, and practice. THE virtue of prosperity is temperance, the virtue of adversity is fortitude. A STRONG character should never have the complete control of a weak one; the weak cannot sympathize with the strong, and, to conceal his weakness, enters into a series of deceptions that often end fatally for the weak. A MAN'S flattery to be really good ought not only to be as keen as his sword, but as polished. THE love of which men sing is with women an eternal truth. THE best of all good things is a good example, for it is the maker and multiplier of good. IN the country of the blind the one-eyed is a king, THE silence of a person who loves to praise is a censure sufficiently severe. PAIN is the father of Wisdom,-Love, her mother. SOME men possess means that are great, but fritter them away in the execution of conceptions that are little; and there are others who can form great conceptions, but who attempt to carry them into execution with little means. These two descriptions of men might succeed if united, but as they are usually kept asunder by jealousy, both fail. THERE is always more error in hatred than in love. THE ecstasy of delight, like the intensity of pain, makes one stern and serious. HE who has merited friends will seldom be without them, for attachment is not so rare as the desert which attracts and secures it. HE that buys a house ready wrought has many a a pin and nail for nought. No man is always wrong; a clock that does not go at all is right twice in the twenty-four days. THE real is the Sancho Panza of the ideal, POSITIVE decision in youth upon things which experience only can teach, is the very credential of vain impertinence. IT is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollection of our former life. Just published, price Two Shillings, postage free, A BALLAD; the Words and Music by ELIZA COOK. London: Charles Cook, Office of "Eliza Cook's Journal," And may be ordered of all Music-sellers in the Kingdom. Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street. COURAGE AND ENDURANCE. WHEN the celebrated Mr. Mark Tapley announced that he was a verb, because it was his fate " to be, to do, and to suffer," he enumerated, after a quaint fashion, a truth applicable to all mankind as well as to the Tapley family. In all men, doing and suffering seem to be the end of their being. Effort and endurance, striving and submitting, energy and patience, enter into every destiny. They continually recur through all the moods and tenses of the verb to live, which every one born into the world is called on practically to conjugate. Any three men might say with perfect truth, "I am," "thou actest," "he beareth;" and no matter how they shifted the parts, they would still be correct. But though doing and suffering enter into all our lots, the world at large has always elevated actionperhaps above its proper position, and depreciated endurance. This may be caused, in some measure, by the one being more pleasant than the other; but the main reason is, because with action is associated success and glory (failures and disgraces are forgotten), while endurance pines in the obscurity out of which it does not endeavour to lift itself. The active is always more attractive than the passive, because conquest gathers about it. Just as the Future, moving onward, usurps the place of the dying Present, and the Present, in its turn, pushes the dead Past into obscurity, so that which moves triumphs over that which is still. Notwithstanding all this, there is a virtue in passive endurance which action seldom has, and a moral dignity which is higher than all the glory of success. We do not say that ""Tis better to endure the ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of." The spread of such a doctrine as that in the hearts of men would produce lethargy, and render progress impossible. Tomorrow brings its own evils, which we must bear for their day, but that is no reason why we should let the suffering of the present cling to us. When we set up endurance as a high quality,higher, in some respects, than mere effort,- -we do not, of course, mean that sort of endurance which springs from ignorance, indifference, or stubbornness. The endurance of the boor, who puts up with dirt and wretchedness because he knows nothing of comfort and cleanliness, and is therefore indifferent to them, [PRICE 1d. is one of the many phases of degradation which we see around us, and the stubbornness that suffers needlessly in order to carry a point, or to maintain a crotchet, or to inconvenience another, is a sort of brutal obstinacy; but we mean intelligent, thoughtful, hopeful endurance, which meets difficulties with a smile, and strives to stand erect beneath the heaviest burden. There is something so noble in that quality, which the world hardly ever does justice to in its contemporaries, as to lift it into the highest regions of heroism. It has all the attributes which men profess to admire. It is more arduous than exertion, more mentally brave than reckless daring; and when we look back upon the records of past great deeds, we seldom fail to allow it the merit which we are slow to recognize in the present. Take, for example, the history of the martyrs of old, and consider in which position of their lives they appear in their most dignified aspect. Much as we admire them when they stand up the fearless advocates of what they believed to be right,-great as they appear when they are striving to pull down wrong, courageous as they show themselves when their enthusiasm leads them to brave danger, it is not then that they most fully enlist our respect and seem to display their most eminent qualities; but it is when they are in their enemies' power, when they are immured in loathsome dungeons, when they are dragged to the stake or the block, that they attain their greatest elevation. Truly looked at, there is always a grandeur in real suffering patiently and enduringly borne. Not in mere anguish, attended by complaints and murmurs,-that is simply painful, without being noble; but in torment, met with dignified patience and even cheerfulness. In all the list of heroic deeds, there is not perhaps a more striking example than that of the female martyr, Anne Askew, whose hand an ecclesiastic held in the flame of a taper till the sinews cracked, in order to try her courage, and she, supported by an enthusiastic faith, uttered no cry, moved no muscle, imprecated no vengeance, but looked her tormentor calmly in the face, and defied his power; and that of the old prelate, who, when the faggot was already prepared for his burning, instead of wailing his fate, and beating his breast, and tearing his hair, went to his death like a bridegroom to the altar, bidding his companion "be of good cheer," and rejoicing that they should that day "light up a flame in England that should never be quenched." By the side of such instances as these, how small by comparison seem the deeds of active courage inciting men to rush on death, and die in the midst of effort! But, even in war itself, endurance is to the full as high a virtue as courage, and much more rare; and it is remarkable that here, as elsewhere, the more scientific, and so to speak, civilized, the methods, the more valuable and necessary does endurance become. In the olden time, when two hosts were set in battle array, and were then hurled against each other like two mad human blood-crested waves in an indiscriminate mêlée, there was less of real moral bravery required than in modern warfare, the stratagems of which render the endurance of discipline essential, make it necessary to restrain ardour, and imperative to brave danger, without moving, for hours together, in order to hold an important position. It is not, however, in ancient or modern times that we shall find in actual battles the highest examples of courage, but in retreats rendered necessary by defeat. It is then that higher sort of courage which is always associated with endurance is displayed. In the excitement and the whirl of action, with the hope of victory, with the pulses playing madly, and the blood rushing in hot haste through the veins, with no time for thought, and with impulse at its highest pitch, few men are so destitute of physical courage as to feel like cowards. Few then even think of running away. Panics occur either before a battle begins or when a check brings an army to a standstill. After entering upon a fight, and while immersed in a conflict, the veriest vagabonds swept from the streets, convicts who have been captured unresistingly, pickpockets who would fly at the sight of the policeman's truncheon,-fight like very heroes, because, as the vulgar saying is, their blood's up;" they are as much artificially stimulated, as though they had drowned their sense of danger in brandy; but when disaster hangs over them, when victory is hopelessly lost, when they are pushed back by a victorious foe, harassed, depressed, fatigued, and spirit-broken, they are thrown into more perilous circumstances, in which only the higher courage of endurance can sustain them. Looked at in this light, the retreat of the ten thousand in the history of Greece outshines the conquests of Alexander, and the retreat of Sir John Moore to Corunna was greater than the victories of the Peninsula. It is noticeable, however, that women, whose province it would seem to bear and forbear, are more capable of endurance than men ; and in the blood-stained stories of war, there is not one perhaps that more enlists our hearts, than that of the woman who put on male attire to follow her lover to the fight, stood by his side through the conflict, where he fell, and then braved death rather than be parted from his dead body. The courage, however, which is exhibited in war, though more honoured and held in greater estimation by the mass, in the past as well as the present, is neither the highest in point of quality, nor the greatest in degree. There are thousands of men and women whose whole life has been a struggle, hour by hour, with the intensest misery. Poverty, and the fear of poverty, has hedged them in, clothed them as with a garment;" their waking hours all toil, or seeking for toil, their nightly dreams of want in its thousand shapes. The fear of death, or worse than that fear, ever before their eyes,-for it is worse than dread of death itself to have all of life occupied by the thought of how to live, not comfortably, or happily, but miserably,-poverty-pinched, hungergnawed. Yet how many are there of these soldiers of the world ever fighting the up-hill battle of existence, ever striving for a position, and never attaining one, ever decimated by the artillery of necessity; beaten back, discomfited, all but hopeless, and despairing, and yet still returning to the charge! How many traversing street after street in search of a meal, living in bare garrets, plying weary fingers and aching eyes from before cock-crow till after dawn, and then hurrying to the shop for more work for the next day! How many crowded by scores into pestiferous rooms, breathing poison! How many worse still, shelterless, and all but naked! How many sinking under the pressure of want into slowconsuming disease, and wasting away amid pain! Courage and Endurance! What is the risk of battles, now and again, to the hourly risks of such lives as these? What the headlong rush against the foe, to the continuous fight with the world and everpressing necessity? What the sharp sword-stroke, or the swift bullet, or the crushing cannon-ball, letting out the life in a moment, to vitality wearing away through years of agony? To bear this, as it often is borne,-borne with constant effort, with never-ending struggles for a better state, and by those, too, who have enjoyed the comforts of life, argues a higher courage and endurance than was ever exhibited on the "stricken field." In domestic life, too, particularly among women, we often see these qualities in their noblest form. Picture the young wife, taken a blooming girl from a home of love to found another home, which is to become almost loveless. Fancy years to have passed away, and the girl to have grown into a matron, with children around her. The rosy cheek has grown pale and sallow, the full form lank and withered, the eyes have sunk backward into their sockets, the mouth, once all smiles and dimples, rigid in thoughtful grief, the once-smooth skin wrinkled and traced with anxious lines, as though care had thrown its veil over the countenance. What does all that tell us of endurance which shames that of the soldier ! It speaks of her heart's choice growing indifferent, neglectful, estranged; of the pretty cottage, with its patch of green and flowers, exchanged for the one room in the dirty, thickly-inhabited lodging-house of a close alley; of more mouths clamouring for the less food, and their cries making sadder music among her heart-strings than woeful bard ever drew from his harp; of late tearful vigils,-ay, and prayerful, too, watching for the well-known footstep; of the coming sound being marked with as much of fear as hope,--fear the watched-for one may come reeking from the gin-shop, and bring from its glare and revelry into the darkness and sadness of his home, surly looks, harsh words, undeserved reproaches, and perhaps blows. We know of some such tales, but there are enough, if written, to fill whole libraries with the histories of these womenmartyrs, the whole life of each a perpetually recurring sacrifice; and yet, sometimes from lingering thought of old loves, crumbling memories of past affection, oftener perhaps from love of offspring, they cling to their dark fate as though it were a paradise of light and happiness. The world sets far too much store by courage,active courage, braving apparent and recognized danger, especially when that courage leads to success, -far too little by that patient endurance which bears so many of its ills, and creates so many of its joys. It writes the lives of many soldiers and a few prominent martyrs upon its heart; it glorifies them, it lavishes upon them respect, admiration, and honour; it builds monuments to them, so that they may live after death; but it never knows of, or if it knows, slights and forgets, the thousands of enduring spirits who pass through life like angels of good, spreading melodies around them, as little recognized, because as ever present, as the hum of the woods, and buries them beneath the lowly sod, over which rises no memorial-stone to mark the resting-place of the truest Courage and Endurance. THE FACETIÆ OF DESPOTISM. Ir is not often that despotism makes us laugh. Its acts in general are not of a nature to excite our risible faculties. On the contrary, disgust, indignation, and sorrow, are the feelings generally aroused. Even in the instances we are about to give, of its more comic side, we find our sense of the humorous certainly somewhat excited, and yet pity for the people who endure the unmitigated evil of such a state of things must be uppermost. Perhaps we are going somewhat far to illustrate tyranny, but no matter what the soil and what the climate, the fruits of this upas-tree are always the same. select the centre of Africa, because the country is new to the English reader, and because the authority is unexceptionable. We Dâr-Wadey is a state of central Africa, near Lake Tsad, and on the confines of Bornoo and Dâr-Four, little known to Europeans. Before the days of Burckhardt, it was scarcely heard of, and this traveller only tells us enough to excite out curiosity. Other travellers, including Browne, Hornemann, Seetzen, Lyers, Denham, just mention it, so that, though we knew there was a place called DârWadey, of its internal scenery, of its manners, customs, &c., we know nothing." But to an Arab Skeikh, el-Tousni by name, previously the describer of Dâr-Four, we now owe a complete account of Dâr-Wadey,* a beautiful, fertile, and populous land, inhabited by a brave and warlike people, of whom, on another occasion, we may give a minute description. On the present occasion we wish to refer to the government only, or rather to the head of it, the Sultan. He The potentate who rules the black people of DârWadey inhabits a huge palace, that occupies nearly a third of the whole city of Warah, the capital. is a despot, ruling wholly of his own free will, and, observes the Sheikh, assumes that air of imposing authority, that severe exterior, that roughness, that frowning mien, which makes the masses tremble. This plan succeeds, for the Wadeyans have for their sovereign a kind of adoration. They give up to him everything, even selecting their most beautiful daughters for his second wives. No one can wear the same ornaments, or bear the same name, or use fans, but him. No one must be praised before a Wadeyan but the Sultan. Water for his drinking is obtained from a different fountain every day, other people being chased from it with whips. A subject appearing in his presence must previously strip; he passes through seven doors before reaching the Sultan, and at each leaves a part of his dress, and then he does not see the sovereign, who sits behind a veil. It is the same very nearly in Dâr-Four, and the Sheikh tells us, in illustration of the consequences, some very curious anecdotes. Sultan Mohammed-Tyrab sent to some Bedouwin Arabs an elephant to bring up. The elephant, once in the Arab territory, devoured everything that came in its way, it would even snatch the food out of people's hands. No one, from fear of the Sultan, Travels in Wadey, by Skeikh Mohammed Ibn-Omar el Tousni; translated from the Arabic by Dr. Perron. Paris. Benjamin Duprat, 1851. 1 vol. pp. 762. "Ac dared to kill the disagreeable animal. At last, however, they grew weary of this unbidden guest, and some Bedouwins went to the Sheikh, the chief of the tribe, and laid before him their complaints. cursed be the enemy," they cried, "whom you bring us in the shape of an elephant. Why, when the Sultan gave it to you, did you not observe to him that we were poor people, incapable of feeding his animal? You received the parasite without saying a word, and you brought him here. He devours our provisions; night and day he destroys everything. Rid us of this brute, give it back to its master, or we must kill it." "But I could never dare go and address the Sultan, telling him of the return of his brute." "Take me with you," said one of the Bedouwins; "if you are frightened, I will speak to the Sultan. I only ask one thing; that is, to open the discourse thus:-"The elephant!' Then the Sultan will say 'What about the elephant?' and I will undertake to answer him,-"The elephant behaves so and so."" "You come then with me to the Facher"-the grand place in front of the palace. "Certainly." Our two Bedouwins prepared for their journey; and in due time they started. It happened that they arrived at the Facher on a Friday, the great audience day. Having reached the gates of the Sultan's palace, suddenly they saw a Vizier coming on horseback, with a grand procession. The tambourines beat, the fifes played, the Vizier approached; he was in his grand costume. "That is the Sultan," said the Bedouwin orator to his companion. "No; it is one of his viziers." Upon this announcement, the Bedouwin began to tremble, and to repent the mission he had undertaken. "But," said he, "if that be only a vizier, who then is the Sultan ?" At this moment one of the great viziers, or high dignitaries, arrived, an abadama, preceded by a considerable number of soldiers, and by other viziers. He wore a most splendid uniform; the tambourines and flutes sounded around him; cavaliers and paradehorses preceded him. That is the Sultan!" cried the stupified Bedouwin. "No! it is one of his viziers." The neophyte was annihilated with surprise: his heart leaped within his bosom, and the poor man forgot the whole speech he had prepared. It was then he calculated the peril of his position. The ab called Abd-Allah-Our-Dikka, then came out upon the Facher with great ceremony, surrounded by a crowd of cavalry and parade-horses, again in the midst of the din of music. No one could hear themselves speak. "Is that the Sultan?" "No! it is the greatest of his viziers." Our Bedouwin could not breathe; his face became livid; he no longer knew where he was. -- - an A moment after, the Sultan came out from the palace. This time there was a regular crash, incredible din. The earth trembled with the infernal clatter of tambourines and the neighing of horses: it seemed as if the earth, says our Arab, was about to fall upon the earth. The Sultan stopped: the soldiers ranged themselves in line. The Bedouwin chief advanced, and said in a sonorous and loud voice: "May God protect our master, and make him victorious over all his enemies! The elephant ! " "What about the elephant?" said the Sultan. Our man made sign with his eye to his companion the orator, winked at him with all his might, and said to him in a low tone, "I have opened the discourse, proceed." It was in vain; the unfortunate orator was mute. "Well," said the Sultan, "what about the elephant?" The Sheikh trembled lest the Sultan should get in a passion, and inflict on him some punishment which would teach him to answer in future. "The elephant," said the Sheikh eagerly, "the elephant is still wild because he is alone. Wo |