with cocoa-nuts. I thus gradually, collected as many cocoa-nuts as produced me a considerable sum.

Having laden our vessel with cocoa-nuts, we set sail, and passed by the islands where pepper grows in great plenty. From thence we went to the isle of Comari, where the best species of wood of aloes grows. I exchanged my cocoa in those two islands for pepper and wood of aloes, and went with other merchants a pearlfishing. I hired divers, who brought me up some that were very large and pure. I embarked in a vessel that happily arrived at Bussorah; from thence I returned to Bagdad, where I realized vast sums from my pepper, wood of aloes, and pearls. I gave the tenth of my gains in alms, as I had done upon my return from my other voyages, and rested from my fatigues.

Arabian Nights.

A GENEROUS TURK.

A FEW years ago the sufferings and persecutions of the Christians in Syria excited deep sympathy. In Damascus and the villages of the Lebanon Christian blood was shed in torrents, and misery was brought upon thousands of peaceful homes by the cruelty of the Mohammedans. And yet these very men, when not excited by the blind fanaticism of their faith, can give proofs of noble generosity. We are not about to relate a fiction, but a fact, for the accuracy of which a truth-loving man, who was on the spot at the time, and knows the country and the people well, the traveller Peterman, has vouched.

A criminal at Damascus was condemned to death, and was led to the place of execution, to undergo the sentence of the law. With death so near, the sad and painful thought oppressed his soul, that since his condemnation he had not once seen his wife and children, and had not been able to take leave of them. Then lifting up his hands he exclaimed-"Oh, is there not among the many who stand here one generous heart, who will be surety for me, so that I may go and see my wife and children once more before I die?"

The cart upon which the criminal sat stopped, and there was solemn silence among the multitude of people which had assembled. The imploring, earnest cry of the unhappy man had struck many. The hearts of all were deeply affected by it.

Suddenly a Turk of noble birth stepped from out of the crowd, and inquired of the criminal, "Where is your family?"

"In Salahije," he replied.

"How much time do you think you will require to see your family once more ?" asked the Turk further.

"An hour," replied the condemned, "at the longest."

"And you will return here again in an hour?"

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Yes, I will," exclaimed the criminal.

"And you," said the Turk, now turning to the executioner, "will wait an hour for the execution ?"

"I am allowed to do so," answered he; "but," he added, in a decided tone, "reflect well on what you are about to do! If he does not return, in that case I must strike off your head instead of his."

"I trust him," said the noble Turk. "Set him free, and bind me! I am content that it should be to me as you have said."

Amazed, and yet with sympathy, the crowd gazed at him who had shown such generosity. The criminal's chains were loosened, and fastened on the Turk. The criminal was soon out of sight. The bystanders now were full of anxiety and fear, which became more and more intense as the hour slipped fast away.

"Will he keep his word?" some whispered. Others prayed to God for the innocent man, whose head must fall if the criminal proved faithless.

The condemned man ran swiftly to Salahije. Once more weeping he pressed his wife and children to his breast, then he tore himself from them, and hastened back to the place where the procession had halted and waited for him. But on the way, evil thoughts came into his mind. Should he not save his life and flee into the mountains? He stood still for a while, but then his better feelings gained the mastery. "He has taken my place, relying on my truth! No!" he exclaimed, "he has shown such noble generosity, I dare not be faithless to him."

The taking leave of his family had been very hard and sad to him, and had kept him longer time than he had intended, and this hesitation, too, during the struggle between truth and dishonour in his heart, had taken up a few of the precious minutes.

"The hour is gone," said the stern executioner to the noble substitute. "You have made yourself the surety for an unworthy man, and you must die in his place!"

The procession now moved slowly on to the place of execution, amid the weeping and lamentation of the crowd. Even the executioner was inwardly moved to mercy, but the judgment had been pronounced, the order had been given to him he dared not set the prisoner free.

:

More slowly than at other times the procession moved on to the place of execution. Many eyes, indeed, were often anxiously turned back, but he whom they expected came not. The hope of the deliverance of the innocent man, who had trusted to the honour and fidelity of the criminal, gradually disappeared. And now they had come to the place of execution. The noble-hearted surety was being stripped to the waist; his neck was already laid bare, when a piercing shriek was heard in the distance. stop!

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Stop! cried the people, and the executioner let the sword sink back into its scabbard.

"Yes, it is he! it is he!" cried the people with joy. The condemned man rushed breathless into the midst of the crowd. "Set him free!" he cried, when still far off; "here am I ! Execute me!"

But the executioner was as deeply affected as the multitude which surrounded him. He loosed the chains of the noble Turk, at whose feet the condemned man threw himself, and thanked him for his generosity. The executioner, however, did not bind the criminal, but said, " Follow me to the Pacha."

And they followed him, and the crowd followed them too, to the Pacha, to whom the executioner related all that had happened.

The Pacha turned to the condemned man, and said, "Speak, why did you not use the chance which you had to set yourself free?"

The criminal threw himself down before the Pacha, and confessed that he had hesitated-that he had struggled with himself-"but," cried he, "I could not and dared not repay the generosity of this noble man with such base ingratitude, and thus rob all Moslems of their trust in truth and honour."

"You have spoken as bravely as you have acted," said the Pacha, "and now I, too, will show generosity. Go home, you are free! Your crime is pardoned."

This story of a Mohammedan Turk, showing such noble and loving generosity, may well make many of us who have far higher blessings and privileges in Christian England, ashamed of our selfishness and want of transparent truthfulness.

No more my

"So faint I am, these tottering feet
feeble frame can bear;
My sinking heart forgets to beat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.

"Open your hospitable door,

And shield me from the biting blast;
Cold, cold it blows across the moor-
The weary moor that I have past!"

With hasty steps the farmer ran,
And close beside the fire they place
The poor half-frozen beggar-man,
With shaking limbs and pallid face.

The little children flocking came,
And warmed his stiffening hands in theirs;
And busily the good old dame

A comfortable mess prepares.

Their kindness cheered his drooping soul;
And slowly down his wrinkled cheek
The big round tear was seen to roll,
And told the thanks he could not speak.

The children, too, began to sigh,
And all their merry chat was o'er;
And yet they felt, they knew not why,
More glad than they had done before.

LUCY AIKEN.

"LIFE IN LODGINGS."

THE lodging-house to which we make our way is by no means of Liliputian dimensions. It looks more like a Brobdignagian mansion, a good deal. It is a fine old house in a fine old street, once the centre of all that was grand, but now left high and dry by the westward ebb of the tide of fashion. But despite the bigness of the house, it belongs to Liliput, and lies in the domain of Liliput; for did we not but just now pass the Foundling Hospital, the head-quarters of the kingdom, so to speak?

Our lodging-house is like Colman's single gentleman—it is the result of the rolling-into-one of two contiguous mansions. Let us enter, and inspect it.

On the ground-floor, we are shown into a waiting-room, where a young surgeon joins us, and declares himself kindly prepared to conduct us. That door on the right leads to the consulting-room for out-patients. "For out-patients!" you say. "Is this a hospital?" Well, it is-a hospital for sick children. It is a lodging-house which receives, rent-free, the sickly infants from London's unwholesome alleys and courts, and restores them-if human skill can restore them—to health; alleviates their sufferings, and comforts their last days, if human skill cannot save them. "You can't see anything comic or humorous that can be got out of such a theme?" I am sorry for it. When you go upstairs presently to see the children, I hope you will laugh-till the tears come into your eyes-to think how much happier and better -with what greater chances of life and of health, without which life is not worth much-these poor little things are than they would be in the fever-dens where their homes are too often situate. At home, too, they can get but little attendance, few