In the "Arabian Nights," that delightful volume which owes nothing to trick or book-craft, and will preserve its charm undimmed through all the mutations of style and schools, which, projecting its images from the lamp and hues of a dazzling fancy, can no more be lectured into neglect than the magic lantern, and will preserve its popularity while the faculty of imagination and the sense of colour remain, we all remember a parallel. In the "Sultan's Purveyor's Story," where the beautiful favourite of Zobaïde is about to make the bridegroom of her love quite happy, and in the moment of his adoration, starts up transformed with a "lamentable cry," and hate and fury in her aspect, all about an unfortunate "ragout made with garlic," and thereupon, with her own hand and a terrible scourge, lashes him, held down by slaves, into a welter of blood, and then orders the executioner to strike off, at the wrist, his offending hand. "_Yes!_ you _do_ know, self-convicted, _why_ I think it better for both that we should part now--better that we should thus early be undeceived; with little pain and less reluctance, forget the precipitation and folly of an hour, and go our several ways through life apart. You are fickle; you are selfish; you are reckless; you are quite unworthy of the love you ask for; if you are trifling with that young lady, Miss Etherage, how cruel and unmanly! and if _not_, by what right do you presume to stand here?" Could he ever forget that beautiful girl as he saw her before him there, almost terrible--her eyes--the strange white light that seemed to flicker on her forehead--her attitude, Italian more than English, statuesque and wild? On a sudden came another change, sad as a broken-hearted death and farewell--the low tone--the fond lingering--of an unspeakable sorrow, and eternal leave-taking. "In either case my resolution is taken. I have said _Farewell_; and I will see you no more--no more--never." And as she spoke, she left the room by the door that was beside her. It was a new sensation for Cleve Verney to feel as he did at that moment. A few steps he followed toward the door, and then hesitated. Then with a new impulse, he did follow and open it. But she was gone. Even the sound of her step was lost. He turned back, and paused for a minute to collect his thoughts. Of course this must not be. The idea of giving her up so, was simple nonsense, and not to be listened to. The door at which the young lady had left the room but two or three minutes before, now opened, and Miss Sheckleton's natty figure and kind old face came in. Quite aghast she looked at him. "For God's sake, Mr. Verney, why are you here? How _can_ you be so rash?" she almost gasped. "You _must_ go, _instantly_." "How could you advise the cruelty and folly of that letter?" he said, impetuously. "What letter?"