tood by him seized one of the plaited tails of hair,
which were nearly an ell in length, and pulled up his head from the
floor. The Chinaman then remained cross-legged, with his eyes humbly
fixed upon the ground.

"Who art thou, dog?" said the pacha, pleased with the man's humility.

"I am of Kathay and your vilest slave," replied the man, in good
Turkish. "In my own country I was a poet. Destiny hath brought me here,
and I now work in the gardens of the palace."

"If you are a poet, you can tell me many a story."

"Your slave has told thousands in his lifetime, such hath been my fate."

"Talking about fate," said Mustapha, "can you tell his highness a story,
in which destiny has been foretold and hath been accomplished? If so,
begin."

"There is a story of my own country, O vizier! in which destiny was
foretold, and was most unhappily accomplished."

"You may proceed," said Mustapha, at a sign from the pacha.

The Chinaman thrust his hand into the breast of his blue cotton shirt,
and pulled out a sort of instrument made from the shell of a tortoise,
with three or four strings stretched across, and in a low, monotonous
tone, something between a chant and a whine, not altogether unmusical,
he commenced his story. But first he struck his instrument, and ran over
a short prelude, which may be imagined by a series of false notes,
running as follows:--

Ti-tum, titum, tilly-lilly, tilly-lilly, ti-tum, titum, tilly-lilly,
tilly-lilly, ti-tum, ti.

As he proceeded in his story, whenever he was out of breath, he stopped,
and struck a few notes of his barbarous music.

THE WONDROUS TALE OF HAN.

Who was more impassioned in his nature, who was more formed for love,
than the great Han Koong Shew, known in the celestial archives as the
sublime Youantee, brother of the sun and moon?--whose court was so
superb--whose armies were so innumerable--whose territories were so
vast--bounded as they were by the four seas, which bound the whole
universe? yet was he bound by destiny to be unhappy, and thus do I
commence the wondrous Tale of Han--the sorrows of the magnificent
Youantee.

Ti-tum, tilly-lilly----

Yes, he felt that some one thing was wanting. All his power, his wealth,
his dignity, filled not his soul with pleasure. He turned from the
writings of the great Fo--he closed the book. Alas! he sighed for a
second self to whom he might point out--"All this is mine." His heart
yearned for a fair damsel--a maid of b