it was finally destined. We thus see the
spirit of Shakspeare, and perhaps of his
predecessor Kyd, working not, alone, but in
communion with the spirit of the epoch in which
they lived; while that spirit itself
acknowledged its relationship with the past, and
the various changes to which it had been
liable in its progress towards the state of
perfection in which our poets found it. And
this consideration serves to explain the
immortality of those works which were the
results of such influences, not by arbitrary
creation of the poet, but as the growths of
time, and the products of nature in the
appointed order of her manifestations.

SAND AND ROSES.

Not many years ago, there came to take
up his abode in one of the most unfrequented
streets of the city of Cairo, between the
Kara Meydan and the Tombs of the Kings,
an individual of somewhat mysterious
appearance and deportment. It did not even
clearly appear to what country he belonged.
A tall cap of a peculiar shape, and a long
gown of scarcely any shape answered,
in a certain degree, to the popular conception
of a Persian; and as The Persian he
was usually described by neighbours who
took an interest in his proceedings. Zarouk,
the black coffee-house keeper, used, it is
true, sagaciously to remark, that the yellow
and sleek aspect, dreamy eye, and
sensual lip of the sons of Ajem, were all
wanting in the stranger; that his countenance
might have belonged to a true Masre
(Caireen), and that his acquaintance with the
subtleties of Arabic, and, indeed, with Egyptian
slang, would be something marvellous
in a foreigner. As Zarouk spoke with an
unmistakeable Suidan brogue, and
interlarded his talk with phrases that seemed
borrowed from the language of birds, these
critical observations were never received
without sarcasm; though in the end people
admitted them to be correct. The
neighbouring barber several times wittily observed
that there was on record a story of a blind
man who offered himself as guide in a strange
city, and accidentally went to the right
place; which anecdote, and an allusion to
the infinite power of Allah, were considered
exquisite satire on Zarouk. He had been too
many times, however, shaved on credit by
the barber to be able to get in a passion.

The Persian for—so we may call the
stranger until we get behind the scenes, and
discover whether or not he merited the title
—seemed to be suspiciously anxious to avoid
public notice. He accosted the landlord of
the house he ultimately occupied in a bazar-
shop, came with him to inspect the premises,
examined whether it was possible for neighbours
to overlook his court-yard, complained
that a full view could be obtained from the
gallery of a neighbouring minaret, was
scarcely reassured when told that the said
minaret belonged to a ruined mosque; and,
in short, took no pains to conceal that his
chief object in living in that out-of-the-way
place was concealment. The little luggage
he possessed was brought on a camel from a
distant wakalah; and the porters who came
with some simple articles of furniture were
not admitted beyond the door, except in the
case of one who had charge of a heavy divan,
and who was almost insulted by a mob of
inquisitive neighbours for saying that he saw
nothing extraordinary in the house.

The Persian was not alone. He came
accompanied by a child some two or three years
old, a negress, and a sturdy, stout Egyptian
servant, about the middle age.

"If he will not speak himself," observed
the barber to Zarouk, "it is quite certain
that garrulity will be a quality of one of the
retainers; even when the child grows a little
older it may also be made to talk."

All this sagacity was disappointed. The
negress never appeared again, except when
she leaned in her red jacket from the roof,
looking towards the sunset; or stood and
chaffered for bread-cakes at the door. The
child, also, was almost constantly confined,
and only came out now and then to take a
few steps up and down in the narrow shade
of the house, holding on by the long, thin
finger of the Persian. As for the Egyptian
servant, by name Saleh, you might as well
have tried to extract information from a
tortoise; for, when questioned directly or
indirectly, he became as silent as that meditative
reptile; and curiosity was abashed by
his grave, reproving glance. In other
respects he was sensible enough, going
regularly to Zarouk's coffee-house, being
sedulously shaved every three days, and, in
general, behaving like a man who wished to
become popular. He might have aspired
to the tyranny of the quarter, if he had not
indulged in the criminal luxury of a secret.

By careful computation, the barber, who
was a wise fellow in his way, and bore the
name of Mohammed, discovered that there
were current sixteen different answers to the
question, "What is the mystery of the
Persian's house?" Without counting the absurd
suggestion of the seller of melon-pips, that he
might be the pasha himself, desirous of
ascertaining what was the condition of his good
subjects of that quarter, with a view of
making them all a handsome present; or the
romantic idea of the bread-woman, who had
six children, though only twenty years of
age, that he was a man of cannibal tastes,
looking out for infants to satisfy his morbid
appetite. As is usual in such cases, however,
none of the guesses in which idle neighbours
indulged were anything like the truth.

Let us enter the dwelling of the supposed
Persian, and examine what goes on there;
and if, with this additional information not
vouchsafed to the barber, nor to Zarouk, nor