apprehend, in a few terse and nervous sentences
illustrated by scenic and other effects
passages of history which, in written archives, seem
doubtful and obscure. It is to this vehicle of
instruction we were, last night, indebted for
more (and more lucid) information respecting the
life, character, and times, of Timour the Tartar,
than (we will venture to say) could be derivable
from any other source. Pages, chapters,
volumes, might have been required, to lay down so
accurate a map of Timour's very remarkable
character, as we obtained, before our dramatic
intercourse with him had lasted ten minutes!
And our astonishment was only equalled by
our gratification. Save in dress, luxuriance
of beard, a certain (affected) truculence of
demeanour, and a habit of wearing three
swords, the Timour of reality no more resembled
the Timour of imagination, than a wren a
turkey.

For, whereas we had regarded the Tartar
prince as a wild, furious, unreasoning, blood-
seeking tyrant and butcher, we found in him a
gentleman of engaging manners, of amiable and
confiding disposition, of considerable earnestness
of purpose, indeed, yet open to counsel (however
unexpected), and suggestions (however
absurd): withal, endued with a heart of the
highest susceptibility, and the victim of a
passion the more touching, because hopeless,
and entirely destitute of any rational foundation
whatever. But we must not anticipate.

The chequered career of this Eastern prince
probably presents no incident that appeals
more strongly to the best feelings of our nature
than that which introduced him to us last
night.

In a tower, built without a roof, about six
feet and a half high, and commandingly situated
at the bottom of a ravine resembling a nursery
for plants of a highly tropical character,
languished a little (female) boy, named Agib,
or to follow the popular pronunciation, Ajib.
Son of a princess of Mingrelia, and with
some faint glimmerings of a remote claim to a
possible succession to the Persian crown, Ajib
had been placed by Timour in what the latter
had every right to consider the safe custody of
his (Timour's) father. Too confiding prince!
Timour the elder, a gentleman by name Oglou,
and wearing a turban of such dimensions that
it threatens every instant to tip him over, at
once sets himself right with the audience and
posterity by taking Ajib out for a walk, lavishing
upon him every possible endearment, and,
in restoring him to his "melancholy prison,"
comforting him with the assurance of very soon
bringing him a letter from his mamma.

Flourish of trumpets—martial movement—
enter Timour himself, attended by his guard of
honour—a lieutenant, and four halberdiers of
different sizes, looking intensely like British
stablemen, and who must at least have been
dismounted cavalry.

After some desultory observations, and
despatching the stiffest of the four halberdiers
to march against certain evil-doers, and conduct
them to the "furtress," Timour proceeds to
cross-question his father as to the safety of the
little captive (a fact he could have resolved
himself, by simply peeping over the battlements);
the dialogue, it is distressing to add, being
characterised by, on Timour's part, an imperiousness
of manner ill-befitting the filial relation;
on the old gentleman's, by an amount of duplicity
wholly unworthy of his eminently reverend and
truthful appearance.

The conversation is at length drowned in an
increasing noise behind the scenes.

"I hear the trampling of horse!" says Timour.

We had heard it for ten minutes, and were in
full anticipation of what followed—namely, the
arrival of several persons on very intelligent-
looking horses indeed. At their head rides the
beautiful Zorilda, Princess of Mingrelia, attired
as Britannia without her shield.

Riding up a hill at the back, for the express
purpose of riding down again—there being, to
all appearance, no valid objection to keeping the
high road—the lovely princess paused for a
moment to receive the applause (started by the
prompter at the wing) which deservedly greeted
so fair a visitor.

She had, it appears, come from a spot not
mentioned in the maps, but evidently familiar
to the audience, by the name of "Jurgia."
(Georgia?)

With Zorilda, Timour—it is surely
unnecessary to add—falls instantly in love. We
should not. Voluble, yet vague, fierce, yet
friendly, Zorilda was an enigma which only a
Timour could solve. He, with intuitive
perception, at once divined her character, her
mission, and her meaning; that is to say, as far
as she would let him, for Zorilda, like everybody
else, laughs at the beard of trustful Timour.

Why should we preserve the hypocrite's
secret? She is no more a princess of Mingrelia
than we are. She is the mother of the captive
Ajib, and a "Jurgian." Her coming hither,
pretending to be captivated with the glory of
Timour, is sheer humbug. She wants her son,
and, somehow, she will have him.

After some love-passages, during which she
at one time menaces Timour with her "javelin"
(about ten feet long), and calls on her Jurgians
to support her, while at another she professes
unreasonable attachment, the lady moots the
delicate subject of Ajib, and, heartily endorsing
the line of policy hitherto observed towards that
injured youth, proposes that, for further
security, she herself should, for the future,
become his custodian.

Nothing better illustrates the generous and
unsuspicious nature of our libelled hero, than
the readiness with which he yields to this
extraordinary suggestion. And here, for the
present, the conference terminates—Zorilda retiring
to the "furtress," under the fostering care of
Oglou.

A pretty little equestrian episode is here
introduced. A lovely Succashin—or Circassian