fore seen. Of the door
not a trace was to be found, and I was, therefore, almost compelled to
believe that my second adventure was a dream, as well as my first. My
only consolation is, that the three objects always seem to change their
situation, for, after repeated visits to the spot, I think I have
observed, that the nut-trees are running towards each other, and that
the tablet and fountain are approaching. Probably, when all has come
together again, the door will once more be visible, and I will do all I
can to fit on a sequel to the adventure. Whether I shall be able to
tell what befalls me in future, or whether it will be expressly
forbidden me, I cannot say.

J. O.

ALI AND GULHYNDI.

BY ADAM OEHLENSCHLAGER.

There once lived in Bagdad a wealthy merchant named Ibrahim. His only
son, Ali, a young man of eminent talent, though but little resembling
his father, was his pride and delight. The father's notion of
happiness consisted in the enjoyment of life and in the industry
requisite to procure the key to all earthly enjoyments--wealth; the
son's mind, on the contrary, was devoted to contemplation and the
pursuit of knowledge. He but rarely quitted his room, and was only
wont to walk in the cool of the evening along the banks of the Tigris
outside the city, to the tomb of Iman Izaser, a Mahommedan saint, which
stood in a circular temple surrounded by date trees, about a league
distant. Here he usually seated himself in the shade, and his delight
consisted in observing those who passed by on their way to the temple
to perform their devotions. He had, above all, observed, as well as
the close veil would permit, the slight and charming form of a female
who went almost daily to the mosque, accompanied by an attendant, who
appeared somewhat older than herself. His eyes followed with delight
the muffled form as she gracefully moved along; he had often witnessed
her kneeling in the temple, and praying fervently, and he imagined that
he in his turn was not unnoticed by the stranger. Thus without having
ever spoken to each other they had formed a kind of acquaintance,
which, however, did not disturb Ali in his contemplations. As soon as
the shadows of evening appeared, he rose and walked silently homewards,
while his eyes gazed on the moonlit waves of the Tigris, or the fresh
verdure of its banks.

"How is it possible, my son," once said his father, on his return from
a long journey, after his camels