"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 Youantée, 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 Youantée. 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 beauty--to whose beauty he might bow. He, to whom the world was prostrate, the universe were slaves, longed for an amorous captivity, and sighed for chains. But where was the maiden to be found, worthy to place fetters upon the brother of the sun and moon--the magnificent master of the universe? Where was she to be found? Ti-tum, tilly-lilly, ti-tum, ti. Yes, there was one, and but one, worthy to be his mate, worthy to be the queen of a land of eternal spring, filled with trees, whose stems were of gold, branches of silver, leaves of emerald, and whose fruits were the fragrant apples of immortality. And where was this moon, fit bride unto the sun? Was she not plunged in grief--hidden in a well of her own tears--even in the gardens of joy? Those eyes which should have sunned a court of princes, were dimmed with eternal sorrow. And who was the cause of this eclipse, but the miscreant, gold-loving minister, _Suchong Pollyhong Ka-te-tow_. Ti-tum, tilly-lilly.