It is, under any guise, a blissful attribute, this ability to soar out of life's dullness, into scenes of imaginary hope and brightness: to escape from the real into the unreal, whether to deeds of heroic valor, whose charm consists in the extravagance of the excitement, or to linger in the enchantments of a tender passion, or to listen to the tales of others' woes or joys: all these kindle up the enthusiasm of the soul. But is there ever any reality to what may be termed romance? If, as some would fain have us believe, the very objects which seem so tangible to our senses, are no realities, what then of the vagaries of the imagination? The moment you reduce the most thrilling incident to mere matter of fact, or divest it of the garb in which fancy ever delights to clothe its objects, the romance loses its charm. The more remote the scene, the more unfettered by conventionalities the actors, the more bewitching the tale of their adventures, and the more impossible the achievements, the better prized. Even the aid of genii and fairies wonderfully helps on this love of the marvelous. What was Aladdin's lamp more than any other old piece of copper ore, until the slave of the lamp suddenly appeared. There has ever hung over the East, a veil of mystery; it may be from the warmth of the Oriental imagination and its own extravagant creations, or from the seclusiveness of the women, who, as they became unfamiliar objects, seemed to be the very Venuses and Peris of the world of fable. The reserve of the men themselves, leaving their better halves to an obliviousness from all the world, is calculated to excite the curiosity of the community at home, and the rest of the world abroad, and to invest the fair sex with most improbable charms. The difficulty and imminent danger of a single interview, excites the love of adventure. Tottering old crones, themselves the genuine antidotes to all passion, point with their bony fingers to the penetralia, where a goddess in human form enshrines her charms. Even a transformation takes place, a new complexion is produced, feminine draperies and a basket of wares, and you pass the unsuspecting and smooth-faced guardian of the portal. You love to linger in the sweetly perfumed halls, to toy with the beautiful Circassian, as she listlessly lounges on her silken couch; you love even the sense of danger, as you start at every step, and again relax into forgetfulness of the external world. But sometimes there is a sequel; you fly for life; your lovely companion bares her neck to the bow-string, her beautiful form enters the mystic veil of the lost woman; the coarse and heavy sack, her coffin--her grave the blue and briny wave of the ocean stream.