“I opened it impatiently. It contained a small plate, in shape like a horseman’s shield, but so bright that the brightness of twenty shields would be dim before it: I looked, and beheld every charm upon which I valued myself reflected upon its surface. ‘Delightful monitor!’ I exclaimed, ‘thou shalt ever be my companion; in thee I may safely confide; thou art not mercenary, nor changeable; thou wilt always speak to me the truth--as thou dost now!’ and I kissed its polish exultingly, and hastened to the _fête_. “Something happened to ruffle my temper, and I returned to the palace out of humour with myself and the world. I took up my treasure. Heavens! what a change was there! My eyes were red with weeping--my lips distorted with vexation; my beauty was changed into deformity--my dimples were converted into frowns. ‘Liar!’ I cried, in a frenzy of passion, ‘what meanest thou by this insolence? Art thou not in my power, and dost thou provoke me to wrath?’ I dashed my monitor to the earth, and went in search of the consolation of my flatterers!” Zobeide here ceased. I know not whether the reader will comprehend the application of her narrative. The Sultan did--and Selim was recalled. THE COUNTRY CURATE. “Tenui censu, sine crimine notum, Et properare loco, et cessare, et quærere, et uti.”--HOR. It was with feelings of the most unmixed delight that on my way to the north I contemplated spending one evening with my old friend Charles Torrens. I call him my friend, although he is six or seven years my senior; because his manners and his habits have always nearly resembled those of a boy, and have seemed more suitable to my age than to his. Some years ago, partly in consequence of his own imprudence, the poor fellow was in very low circumstances; but he has now, by one of those sudden freaks of fortune which nobody knows how to account for, become sleek and fat, and well-to-do in the world; with a noble patron, a pretty wife, and the next presentation to a living of a thousand a year. I arrived at the village of---- about sunset, and inquired for the house of Mr. Torrens. Of the children to whom I applied no one seemed to understand me at all; at last one of them, a ’cuter lad than his companions, scratched his head for half a minute, and exclaimed, “Oh! why, sure, you mean Master Charles, our curate! Gracious! to think of calling him Mr. Torrens!” I afterwards learned that this hopeful disciple had the office of looking to the curate’s night-lines. However, he led me to the house, giggling all the way at the formality of “Mr. Torrens.” I was prepared by this to find my old acquaintance as warm, and as wild, and as childish as ever.