delirium, produced by the tales to which he had listened in the evening; and he had killed his friend, while fancying that he fired at the spectre of the Cardinal Joseph Giocchini. Reader, the painter was Michael Angelo,-and the corpse, his friend Laurenzo, chapel-master at Naples.

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THE EASTERN STORY-TELLER.

THE following is an authentic specimen of the tales which are listened to with so much delight by the Orientals, and the invention and narration of which are a distinct and very profitable business among the Turks and Arabs. It was taken down in short-hand from the lips of an itinerant story-teller, by a recent traveller in the east.

The Sultan revelled in the gay kiosque,

Where Ganges' waters to the morning rolled,
Quaffing the snow-cool wine from cups of gold;
A humble dervish prayed in the lone mosque-
Prophet of God!" with fervor deep, he cried,
"Grant me a token that my prayer is heard!"
He raised his eye, and lo! a lovely bird
Upon a pillar's marble crown he spied ;
No fairer warbler, from the Swerga bowers,
E'er bathed in dews of paler earthly flowers,

The light of Aden on its green wings bringing;
Still, as he gazed, its colors richer grew-

At length, through morn's fresh glades, away it flew,
Leaving the lone mosque with its music ringing.

The dervish followed over mount and plain,
The spirit-bird still flitting on before him,

·-

Th' hour-numb'ring sun unheeded speeding o'er himHe was all ear to drink its gushing strain. A vain pursuit !-scarce on the bough alighted, On, on it glanced, to be afresh pursued, The pilgrim's courage glowing unsubdued,His soul on fire, -his panting heart delighted! But where the sunset's heav'n-unfolding flood Streams through the columns of the banian wood, Alas! 'tis melting from his eager eye, Fading away with his quick-fading beamsA lovely phantom of the land of dreamsGone, as it came, to bowers beyond the sky.

'Neath dreamy twilight's twinkling, dew-fed lamp,
He stretched his weary limbs along the moss
Under the banian's shade, and mourned the loss
Of the sweet vision on his night-couch damp,
Yet slept at length, nor wak'd till dewy morn
Closed the full stars, and oped the infant buds,
Rousing the warblers of the Indian woods:
But his bright bird was gone, and he is lorn!
Yet prays, and in a fountain's cooling waves,
With large ablutions, his hot brow he laves,

Resumes his staff, and seeks his humble home-
A weary journey-days and months speed by
Ere he hath reach'd that mountain summit high,
The emerald pillar of the sapphire dome,-

Amid whose rocks his little chapel stood :
But lo! what vision bursts upon his gaze!
Domes, spires, and churches, 'neath the sunset rays,
Gleaming 'mid many a green and palmy wood.
The wayward genii, he remembered, loved
To weave such cities of the filmy light,
Begun and finished in a single night;

But still his wonder grew, as lost he roved
Through streets and squares built of substantial stone,
Where late the camel herds were browsing lone,
And gleamed the crescent from the minaret.
Was he awake?—the crowd around him spoke
A strange, rough tongue-new wonders on him broke,
And wonder filled the eyes of all he met.

A fakir passed. Of him he wildly asks

Who, what, and where he is! With wondering smile,
Answers the moslem, "From a northern isle,

Whose iron-coast a frozen girdle clasps,
Came Islam's foes, and this rich city grand
Is the creation of the infidel-

The haughty lords of radiant Indian land—
A tale most sad for moslem lips to tell !"
A hundred years had fled since he had chased
The spirit-bird, swift as a dream effaced;

And that sweet warbler was a sainted sprite,
Sent from its rest to lead so good a man
To christian light-for so the legend ran
Which cheered my vigil on the ocean bright.

A LAST REHEARSAL.

[THE scene-as the plays say-represents a stage, in which chairs, tables, curtains, scene-shifters, and actors, are spread about in admirable confusion.]

The stage-manager to the call-boy.-Ring the bell,—it is half-past eleven.

The call boy, ringing his bell.— Ladies and gentlemen, please take your places,-all is ready.

The author, manuscript in hand, appears first on the stage, arm-in-arm with the prompter.-We will begin whenever you like; I am quite ready. (He opens his manuscript, and takes his seat in front of the orchestra. The actors and actresses come on the stage one after the other, and with a long interval between each arrival,

The stage-manager.-Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin now if you are ready. (He claps his hands.) Come, come, we can't stop for any one. (Nobody beginning to speak, he grows impatient.) What now? What are we waiting for?

The author. It is the gentleman (he does not designate him by name.) who is to play the part of the valet.

The stage-manager.-I forfeit him for non-attendance.

The actor, who plays the part of the valet, volting from the slips. Here I am; no one has waited for me, for I was here long before the time.

The stage-manager.—You are forfeited, I tell you.

The actor. It is Mr.

(he mentions his name,) who now stops our going on-it is impossible to rehearse without the presence of the principal character.

The stage-manager to the forfeited actor.-Go to the Garrick's head, and hint to him very civilly that we are all waiting for him.

All the actors murmur.—He always does this -Because he has got a name and a reputation, he thinks himself authorized to do as he pleases-but if the public saw with our eyes, they would think differently. Mr. must be waited for; Mr. must be sent for; and we have to pay the forfeit. (The actor now appears with his dog: an awful pause ensues.)

The star.-This waiting is intolerable! Here have I been at the coffee-house below these two hours, and no rehearsal! But, Mr. Stage-manager, I can't lose my time in this wayand I beg you to understand that I won't.

(The valet's forfeit is doubled. They begin the rehearsal— JANUARY, 1843.

G

and do all they can to show off the piece, except the star, who folds his arms, and stands silent and motionless.)

The star.—I have got a sore throat. Here, here, (to his dog, and whistling most vigorously.)

The author.-For heaven's sake, do try.

The star.-I am quite worn out, and overcome. (He beats his dog most outrageously, then puts his hands into his pockets, and mumbles his part into his neckcloth.)

The first scene-shifter, yawning.-Oh! oh! ha! ha!

The star to the author.- Expunge this sentence at the commencement of my speech, it is so long, I can never remember it. The author, trying to suppress his wrath.-But, my dear fellow, it is absolutely essential to the denouement of the piece. The star.-I shall blunder in the very first line.

The author, in despair.—Take it out, if you insist upon it. The star.-Very good! but add someting striking and effective, if you please, for my exit: I can't do justice without it. The author, more angry.—It is utterly impossible.

The star.-I know better than you, and be assured unless you do it your piece will be hissed; but do as I tell you, and I will guarantee your success.

The author, with an anguished expression.-Very well, then, it shall be as you wish.

Upon this concession all the other performers crowd round the author, and overpower him with their opinions and criticisms. The valet to the author.-Ah! my dear sir, if you would only add fifteen lines to my part, I am sure I should do a deal of credit to your piece, and have an opportunity of making my talents known!-consider I have a wife and five small children to support.

The author.-Very well; you shall have them.

The prompter to the author.-The manuscript will have to be copied over again, on account of all these corrections. The author.-Two sovereigns more out of my pocket! The insatiable vultures!

The stage-manager.-Let us go on.

The star to the principal actress.-Angelic creature, joy of my life,—in one emphatic word, my love!—(Kissing her.) The principal actress. —I do not choose to be kissed.

The star. It is so in the piece, and so I must rehearse it. A gentleman from the slips.-Who has had the impudence to kiss that lady?

The call-boy-Silence there.

The star to the author.-You should not permit people to intrude behind the scenes; it is one of the press-gang, who