she revived: " I am indeed saved by thy
baud; O my beloved, Allah hath heard my
prayers, and great is my reward. To-morrow
I sleep with my fathers arid see thee no
more." The light of the dawn was on her
face. "Lindora!" the youth cried, with a
sudden fear, " Lindora! speak to me again!"
He looked at the opal in his dagger, which
for an instant shot forth rays, and then its
light departed: it became a dull, dead stone.
The soul of Lindora, light of the dawn, had
left that couch of trampled grass and blood,
and floated forth into the morning sky.

"And what became of her lover?" I
inquired of the old hunter, who appeared
disposed to make an end at this part of the tale,
whereas I desire always to know distinctly
what becomes of every one. We were told in
reply, that some said he died at the storming
of the castle, some said that he went to
Granada and fought in a reckless way,
became a great man, and never smiled and
never married; but the old hunter himself
inclined to think that he abandoned war, and
being a caliph married largely, and escaped
the observation of the world by being over-
much secluded in his harem.

We requested the old huntsman not to kill
Lindora when he told the story next. He
listened gravely, and replied, with more
reproof in his looks than in his voice, that
Lindora had become possessed—that is to
say, mentally deranged—and in that state,
according to his faith, she was regarded as a
saint, and sacred to every good Moslem. It
was therefore good that she should in that
state be compensated for her troubles by a
certain passage into heaven.

LONDON BRIDGE IN THE
AFTERNOON.

THE City of London in these hot afternoons
seems to collect together the heat of the day,
as it does so much of the gold of it, and bank
it for itself in its streets and bye- ways. The
only pleasant coolness exists in the shade of
great Saint Paul's, as you creep along under
the shelter of its spiritual presence. But
when you have passed it, and enter the long
crowded Cheapside, the thoroughfare glows
again in heat and sunshine, and the black
figures of distant men gleam like flies upon
a whitewashed wall. The perched up clock
of Bow attracts the light to its expressive
face; and the figures burn so brightly with
fire, that you can fancy them moving and
alive, and conscious that they are telling of
summer hours.

Potent summer heat, whether it be on sea,
in country, or town—is the most favourable
to the romantic perception of things. We are
hot when we sleep, which is the time of
dreams. There is scarcely a face that, with a
strong summer light upon it, assumes not a
look more or less interesting and ideal. Lean,
in a warm summer afternoon near to a place
of industry and hard work—such as a workshop
or a dock—and the people and the scene
will gradually seem more poetical than usual.
This feeling is the proper imaginative state;
and no wonder that we trace the most glowing
imagery to the burning and dreamy lands of
Asia.

The heart of the City of London, is not,
however, the best place in the world to excite
the imagination. Nevertheless, let London
have its fair share of all the beauty that heat
brings with it, and not be left only Che dust,
the water-carts, and the street-orderlies. Let
us, sauntering on a sunny afternoon in its
streets, yield to the influence of the time, and
see things as well as we can under their
picturesque aspect.

Specially does the mystic or romantic
element stir in the comfortable blood of
the inhabitant of the City. It is part of
the strange revival of lite that is going
on all round us. Insects have come—goodness
knows whence—and are buzzing round
us before we think that it is about their
time. The dweller in the suburbs finds,
when he returns home in the evenings, that
Nature has " credited " him with a scarcely
expected increase to his stock. The fuchsia
drops out; the roses jet out on the walls; the
honeysuckle tumbles out like ointment from
a magician's pot. Hence it is that the heart
of London is uneasy; London, the great
common-place giant, stirs himself, and sniffs
the country air afar off. Even London cannot
eat all the hay of the empire, but will have
a tumble in some of it, at all events. Hence
a visible commotion in the City, and hence
that bustle specially at London Bridge, which
I saw yesterday in the flesh, and you, the
reader, may see, by my aid, in the spirit.

Going out of town is a custom, like every
other decent custom, of immense antiquity.
The weather is not favourable to cyclopaedic
writing, but the imagination may dwell with
pleasure on the close of the Roman season!
Fancy the bustle among the household slaves
at the villa of the master. The great generals
and lords went off to pleasant Baia3, or to
dwellings among ancestral hills and priceless
beautiful olive-trees. The amphora
emerged from its cool retreat at Misenum;
and the dazzling red mullet came fresh
from the waters to Brundusium. The
Appian and Flaminian ways were gay with
chariots; the fat and prosperous parvenu
sweltered as he was carried along in his
lectica. Good-natured, portly Cicero (with
Tiro in charge of the MSS.) passed into the
portals of his country place, sacred to peace,
cool air, philosophy, and wise and pleasant
talk. The dandies looked out their coolest
summer rings; and the great Caesar found it
too hot to wear a laurel, and in the shade of
trees happier than laurel trees, drank cooled
wine and water, and wrote epigrams!

Such visions may or may not be present or
pleasant; but, meanwhile, we are drawing