and helps her to rise. Hutchins has noticed a small basket hanging on Lucy's arm, and offers to carry it for her; Lucy draws it back hurriedly, and frowns on her maid. A handful of poor withered, almost colorless flowers, once so blue,- such is the treasure she clings to so closely.

now.

As Sir John and the doctor go down the steps, followed by Aubrey and Miss Davenne, a number of persons assembled in the garden take off their hats and caps and wave them in the air. Sir John's tongue cleaves to his palate, and he gives up his speech. He even thinks it prudent to proceed to the shaking of hands in silence. Those who choose to kiss his hand - Prospero, his younger brother, their aged mother-all are free to do so Sir John offers no resistance. Meanwhile Aubrey hurries Lucy on to the little gate where the carriage is waiting. Rosa and Speranza, and a little in the rear, Battista, are crying like fountains. Lucy returns half unconsciously the warm caresses of the two women, who kiss her hands and clothes, and cling desperately to their young benefactress, until Aubrey with an oath jerks her into the carriage. Antonio helps the baronet in. "Pleasant journey, Sir John; buon viaggio, signorina, take care of yourself." The signorina does not say a word, does not smile, does not bow, but stares at the kind face-the kind face that dares not even smile, alas! for it feels the evil eye resting on it. A clack from the postilion; a shout from the assembled bystanders, "Buon viaggio, il signore gli accompagni; "—the ponderous machine rolls up the lane, and the kind face disappears. Lucy arouses from her trance: "Papa, are we going?" and she bursts into a passion of tears. It was like the giving way of a dam in a river. Papa fairly gives way too, hugs the suffering child to his bosom, and father and daughter mingle their tears. While this passes within, Aubrey, in the rumble, lights a fresh cigar from the one he had been smoking.

Those left behind stood on the highway watching the fast diminishing carriage. They watched till it disappeared. Poor Antonio was sick at heart, and would fain throw off his mask. But no: he must listen to the idle verbiage of the count and the mayor, who insisted on accompanying him home. He reached it at last, threw himself upon his bed, and—man is but man after all wept like a child.

JALAL-AD-DİN RŪMI

(A. D. 1207-1273)

BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON

HE appellation Rúmi, or Syrian, is given to the Persian poet Jalāl-ad-din because most of his life was passed at Iconium in Rum, or Asia Minor. His full name is recorded as Jalāl-ad-din Mohammed Rumi; he is generally known as Jalāl-ad-dīn, or "Splendor of the Faith," but it is convenient to record his name, according to Western methods, under the simple form Rūmi.

This Persian poet may best be remembered as the founder of the Maulavi sect of dervishes, or the whirling dervishes as they are often called; whose austerity of life, mystic philosophy, enthusiastic devotion, and religious ecstasy superinduced by the whirling dance, are familiar to readers of Eastern literature. The writings of Jalāl-ad-din, like Jāmī, Nizāmī, and others, breathe the religious spirituality of Sufi philosophy: the world and all that is comprised therein is but a part of God, and the universe exists only through God; the Love Divine is all-pervading, and the rivers of life pour their waters into the boundless ocean of the supreme soul; man must burnish the mirror of his heart and wipe away the dross of self that blurs the perfect image there. This is a keynote to the "Rūmian's" religious and mystic poetry.

Jalāl-ad-din Rūmi was not only himself renowned, but he inherited renown from a noble father and from distinguished ancestors. The blood of the old Khvarismian kings flowed in his veins. He was born in Balkh, Bactria, A. D. 1207. The child's father was a zealous teacher and preacher, a scholar whose learning and influence won for him so great popularity with the people of Balkh as to arouse the jealous opposition of the reigning Sultan. Obliged to leave his native city, this worthy man wandered westward with his family, and ultimately settled in Syria, where he founded a college under the generous patronage of the Sultan of Rúm, as Asia Minor is termed in the Orient. He died honored with years and with favors, at a moment when his son had recently passed into manhood.

Upon his father's death Jalāl-ad-din succeeded to the noble teacher's chair, and entered upon the distinguished career for which his natural gifts and splendid training had destined him. He was already

married; and when sorrow came in the untimely death of a son, and in the sad fate of a beloved teacher, his life seems to have taken on a deeper tinge of sombre richness and a fuller tone of spiritual devotion, that colors his poetry. Revered for his teaching, his purity of life, and his poetic talents, the "Rūmian's" fame soon spread, and he became widely followed. Among many anecdotes that are told of his upright but uneventful life is a sort of St. Patrick story, that ascribes to him supernatural power and influence. Preaching one time on the bank of a pond, to a large concourse of eager listeners who had assembled to drink in his inspired words, his voice was drowned by the incessant croaking of innumerable frogs. The pious man calmly proceeded to the brink of the water and bade the frogs be still. Their mouths were instantly sealed. When his discourse was ended, he turned once more to the marge of the lake and gave the frogs permission again to pipe up. Immediately their hoarse voices began to sound, and their lusty croaking has since been allowed to continue in this hallowed spot.

To-day, Jalāl-ad-dīn Rūmī's fame rests upon one magnum opus, the 'Masnavi' or 'Mathnavi.' The title literally signifies "measure,” then a poem composed in that certain measure, then the poem par excel lence that is composed in that measure, the 'Masnavi.' It is a large collection of some 30,000 or 40,000 rhymed couplets, teaching Divine love and the purification of the heart, under the guise of tales, anecdotes, precepts, parables, and legends. The poetic merit, religious fervor, and philosophic depth of the work are acknowledged. Six books make up the contents of the poem; and it seems to have been finished just as Jalāl-ad-dīn, the religious devotee, mystic philosopher, and enthusiastic poetic teacher, died A. D. 1273.

The best collection of bibliographical material is that given by Ethé in Geiger and Kuhn's 'Grundriss der Iranischen Philologie,’ Vol. ii., pages 289-291. The first of the six books of the 'Masnavi' is easily accessible in a metrical English version by J. W. Redhouse, London, 1881 (Trübner's Oriental Series); and three selections are to be found in S. Robinson's 'Persian Poetry for English Readers,' 1883, pages 367-382. Both these valuable works have been drawn upon for the present sketch. The abridged English translation of the 'Masnavi' by E. H. Whinfield, London, 1887 (Trübner's Oriental Series), is a standard to be consulted.

THE SONG OF THE REED, OR DIVINE AFFECTIONS

From the Masnavi›

IST how that reed is telling its story; how it is bewailing the pangs of separation:

L

Whilst they are cutting me away from the reed-bed, men and maidens are regretting my fluting.

My bosom is torn to pieces with the anguish of parting, in my efforts to express the yearnings of affection.

Every one who liveth banished from his own family will long for the day which will see them reunited.

To every assembly I still bore my sorrow, whether the companion of the happy or the unhappy.

Every one personally was ever a friend, but no one sought to know the secrets within me.

My affections and my regrets were never far distant, but neither eye nor ear can always discern light.

The body is not veiled from the soul, nor the soul from the body; but to see the soul hath not been permitted.

It is love that with its fire inspireth the reed; it is love that with its fervor inflameth the wine.

Like the reed, the wine is at once bane and antidote; like the reed, it longeth for companionship, and to breathe the same breath.

The reed it is that painteth in blood the story of the journey, and inspired the love-tale of the frenzied Mejnun.*

Devoid of this sense, we are but senseless ourselves; and the ear and the tongue are but partners to one another.

In our grief, our days glide on unprofitably; and heartcompunctions accompany them on their way.

But if our days pass in blindness, and we are impure, O remain Thou- Thou, like whom none is pure.

No untried man can understand the condition of him who hath been sifted; therefore, let your words be short, and let him. go in peace.

Rise up, young man; burst thy bonds, and be free! How long wilt thou be the slave of thy silver and thy gold?

If thou shouldest fill thy pitcher from the ocean, what were thy store? The pittance of a day!

*Mejnun and Laila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Their love-tale forms the subject of poems by several eminent Persian poets.

In the eye of the covetous man it would not be full. If the shell lay not contented in its bed, it would never be filled with the pearl.

He whose garment is rent by Love Divine-he only is cleansed from avarice, and the multitude of sins.

Hail to thee, Love, our sweet insanity! O thou, the physician of all our ills!

Thou, our Plato and our Galen, the medicine of our pride and our self-estimation!

By Love the earthly eye is raised to heaven, the hills begin to dance, and the mountains are quickened.

Could I join my lip to that of one who breatheth my breath, I would utter words as melodious as my reed.

When the rose-garden is withered, and the rose is gone, thou wilt hear no longer news of the nightingale.

How should I be able any longer to retain my understanding, when the light of my beloved one no longer shineth upon me? If the lover no longer receiveth his nourishment, he must perish like a bird deprived of its food.

Translation of S. Robinson.

THE MERCHANT AND THE PARROT

From the 'Masnavi)

HERE was a merchant owned a parrot which was kept shut up in a cage, the paroquet's world.

THE

On a certain occasion the merchant made preparations for a journey, beginning with Hindustan.

Calling each of his man-servants and his maid-servants, he said: "What am I to bring back to you? Let me know.”

Each expressed a wish according to his own choice; and the good man promised something to every one.

Turning to the poll-parrot, he said: "And what gift am I to bring you from the land of Hindustan ? »

Polly replied: "When you see those parrots there, make my situation known to them, and say:

«There is a certain parrot who is longing for you, but is confined from the free vault of heaven, shut up in a cage.

"He sends you his greetings, and he asks of you direction and some means of deliverance.'