ed as Jerglans, imitated the various pafsions of love, acted different scenes of jealousy, tenderness, and disgust. Alladin permitted his friends to choose from among them, a small number only being excepted for the master. It was not from a depravity of taste or of mind, that caused him to allow such universal liberties to his friends: no, it was generosity, a dislike to exclusive enjoyments; he could pofsefs nothing but in common, and when any of his friends fhewed an attachment to one of his women, Alladin sent her to him magnificently drefsed, and on her entrance, fhe said, behold your slave, that Alladin presents to However incredible it may appear, yet it is you. not lefs true, than that the utmost decency reigned in all these parties; the fhady palm, and orange trees mixed with myrtles, which fromed large greves, conjunction with the veil of night, covered the mysteries of love. Alladin and his friends supped in a verdant saloon, lighted with an infinite number of candles exhaling odours of amber and roses. The most exquisite wines were served out of cups ornamented with diamonds; and concerts of voices and of instruments penetrated with joy and voluptuousnefs, hearts already open to every pleasure.

CHAPTER V.

The Calender.

in

The angel of death closed the eyes of the father of Alladin. This lofs tore his heart to pieces, for his mind was fully sensible of the extent of it, and plunged him into the deepest melancholy. He renounced every pleasure; study alone seemed to offer him that consolation which he thought he might

indulge in he sought after those who had a reputation for science; but above all, he conversed more willingly with all strangers, and was eager in his inquiries from them of their manners, constitutions, commerce, and the particular arts which they cultivated. An old Calender who had travelled a great deal, above all attracted his notice. He was a man that had been well tried by fortune; who had been in high favours, and disgrace; who had lived in opulence and misery; and who had finished by making himself a monk, in order to enjoy an independant life, purchased by many labours. His dress made him to be respected; and a few secrets which he possessed in physic, procured him considerable sums, whenever he wanted money; but he seldom employed this resource, in order not to be importuned; he lived thus free from family and

restraint.

The Calender had seen a great deal, and observed much; he knew no absolute truth; found nothing great, nothing mean, nothing little: contemplating with the same eyes an intrigue of a court, with that of an anti-chamber, the world was for him a theatre, where he was happy in being only a great spectator, and seated on one of the lowest benches. He never reproached any one with what he ought to have done; he took men and things just as they were. Nothing is more foolish, and at the same time nothing more common, said the Calender, than to say to a man who has broken his leg, why did you attempt to leap that ditch? Why did not you take another road? The fact is, the leg is broken,

and it must be cured, and not reasoned upon. He never gave advice, but sometimes opinions, and the greater part of mankind appeared to him like to sleep walkers upon a narrow path; you must not awake them said he, or they will fall down. He never reasoned against the passions, but proved often that they did not exist.

The uncommon talents of Alladin had not escaped the penetration of such a man, and had warmed him with the tenderest affection. He was happy in witnefsing his excellent disposition expand itself, and partook of his succefs, which he sometimes paved the way to, by indirect hints. It was to be perceived that nothing was new to the Calender; and by his ease and nobleness of manner, he fhewed that he had lived in the first company. He passed the greater part of the day with Alladin, who returned his affection by the warmest gratitude, and respected him as a father. Alladin had frequently requested to be more particularly informed about him, and the Calender had promised him the recital of his adventures, but he delayed it in order to be more afsured of the friendship and discretion of his young friend

4

To be continued.

ANECDOTE.

THE Marechal de Vivonne wrote to Louis the fourteenth from Mefsina, and finished his letter with these words, "We have need here of ten thousand men, to carry on the affairs."

He

gave

it to the commifsary Du Terron to seal; who added after the

THE COTTER S SATURDAY NIGHT, BY R. BURNS.

Inscribed to R. A****, esq.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and distiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

1.

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene,

The native feelings strong, the guileleis ways,

What A****. in a cottage would have been;

GRAY.

Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

II.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough;
The fhort'ning winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil worn cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

III.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, toldlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi flighterin noise and glee.

His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,

His clean hearth stane, his thrifty quifie's smile,

The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,

And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil,

IV.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin' in,

At service out amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town.

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes haine, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be,

V.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,"
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:
The scoial hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers,
Gars auid claes look maist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

VI.

Their master's and their mistress's command,
The youngkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;

And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!

And mind your duty, duly, morn and night!

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

Implore his council and afsisting might:

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."

VII.

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door,
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek,
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,'
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;

Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake

VIII.

With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta`en;

The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artlefs heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate an' laithfu' scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

IX.

O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart felt raptures! blifs beyond compare!

I've paced much this weary, mortal roand,
And sage experience bids me this declare-
If Heaven a draught of Heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,

''Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

In other's arms breath out the tender tale,

Beneath the milk, white thorn that scents the evening gale.'