and scientific men of all nations, and of every tongue, were induced, by liberal offers, to make this Athens of the East their home. The court seemed not so much the fountain of power, as the resort of men of letters, and the abode of science. The sword was exchanged for the pen, and the gates that were a short time since traversed only by armies, now opened to admit caravans laden with precious manuscripts, the tribute of conquered provinces. Then knowledge was the direct passport to royal favor. The works of the most noted authors of antiquity were translated into Arabic. Amanuenses were continually employed transcribing rare or valuable productions. The drama alone, in the whole range of literature and science, was neglected. Codes of laws were digested; medicine became more practically understood; and the monarchs themselves superintended astronomical experiments. Nor was this spirit of investigation confined to the East. The colleges of Bagdad did not enjoy undisputed sway in the empire of mind-the Arabs of Europe rivaling those of Asia in their onward course. The Ommiades of Spain strove with a noble emulation to outstrip the old line of Caliphs in the paths of science. Cordova, Seville, and Granada, eagerly contended for supremacy in Moorish literature, and even exceeded Bussora, Bagdad, and Cufa, in the inducements held out to learned The literati of Europe drew their stores of knowledge from these Arabs, who so recently had deluged the world with their barbarous hordes. men. Other nations make slow and tedious progress; but they cast off, with a single effort, the trammels of ignorance, and from half civilized tribes were changed to polished nations. In the year 641, the great library of Alexandria perished, through the ruthless barbarism of Omar, and in 750, Affas, the first of his name, mounted the throne. The bigotry of Mohammedanism was now laid aside, and notwithstanding the injunctions of the careful prophet, Pagans and Christians were admitted to a fellowship in their privileges and pursuits. Not a town of importance, throughout the great eastern and western Arabic empires, was without its library; whilst every large city had its college, whither resorted, not the Mussulman alone, but the student of every land, who aimed to pierce the dark cloud that oppressed the energies of slumbering Europe. These two great luminaries were connected by a chain of lesser lights, that stretched along the northern shore of Africa. Though inferior to the great sources of learning, the schools of Cairo and Alexandria were not unworthy of the land of the Ptolemies; and even Carthage might look, without disdain, upon the cities that sprung up around her deserted site. With their glory, their college and libraries have passed away. The fall of Granada, after five centuries of prosperity, shook the Arab power to its base. The returning wave recoiled upon Africa and Asia with a force that paralized their energies, and learning died away. The "last sigh of the Moor," as Boabdil el Chico bade farewell to his native land, sang a sad requiem to the departure of the Golden Age of Arab Literature. All that remains of that once noble structure, is the remembrance of Haroun Al Raschid, in the tales of the stroller, who lightens the sluggish hours of the again bigoted and benighted Mussulman, with the wonders unfolded to the jealous Sultan, by the matchless Sheherazade. Nor is the rapidity of the rise of their Literature more wonderful than its immense extent. Every branch and province of science, every ramification of the arts, had its devotees. The number of works produced within the lapse of but a few years, seems almost incredible. It can only be accounted for by the fact, that they are the fruit of the labors of an empire stretching from the Indian to the Atlantic Ocean, and embracing the fairest half of the then known world; and, by the fertility of invention engendered by their sunny climate. These causes, aided by the enthusiastic and imaginative nature of the people, have given to the world a literature equaling in extent that of all Europe. We cannot but lament, that from this vast fund of knowledge we are permitted to draw so slightly, and that we must be content to gain our information, and form our opinions concerning Oriental writers, from translations, which, in whatever language they may be, can convey to the mind but faint impressions of the native force and dignity of the originals. The peculiar power of national idioms, the delicacies of style and wording, are either weakened or entirely lost. We see their beauties, it is true, but they are clouded, and viewed as it were through a veil, which reveals the striking characteristics, the form and features, but conceals the complexion with its ever-varying shades. Even in translations, however, we find much that is impressive, and much that is attractive; their lively and picturesque images are not those which we have seen in so many forms and shapes, that they have become as familiar as "household words," and our well-trained imaginations may even sometimes be startled by the boldness of their metaphors, as the jaded hack is terrified, almost to madness, by the appearance of the wild and uncurbed rover of the praries. We look with admiration upon the spirit of the untamed steed, and let us not complain of the fire of the Eastern poet. Nurtured in the love and veneration of poetry, the Arabs have ever held the bard in high esteem. Long ere the appear ance of the great impostor, the muses shed the softening influences of poetry upon their wandering tribes. Vieing with each other in the paths of poesy, as well as in the battle-field, the rise of a poet was hailed as a subject of general rejoicing, and made an occasion of congratulation to his family. Like the Provençal's "Court of Love," they had their court of poesy, where rival writers contended for the palm of victory, and the conqueror saw his verses, inscribed in letters of gold, suspended upon the walls of the holy temple at Mecca. Seven of these "Golden Poems" still exist, having escaped the withering touch of time, and prove that song and love were not unknown to these wild sons of Ishmael. Their rich and glowing imagery displays a depth of passion worthy of the days of chivalry, and puts to shame the cold effusions of more modern swains. The Epicurean voluptuousness at times exhibited, brings forcibly to mind the jovial odes of Horace, as may be seen in a few verses which have been thus translated by Sir W. Jones: "But ah! thou know'st not in what youthful play, Sweet was the draught, and sweet the blooming maid, We sipped till morning purpled every plain, The waking birds that sang on every tree Their early notes, were not so blithe as we." Indeed, we might often conceive that the pen of the old Roman, and not that of Leibid, or of Amru, had given birth to these soothing strains, did not the praises of the faithful steed, or camel, play a part in every effort of their muse, second only to the passionate pursuit of love. This, with the old Arab poets, was a most prolific theme. Every poem commenced either with the exultation of the favored, or the lamentations of the disconsolate lover. The beauty of his "well beloved," was extolled in a series of images; her face likened to the sun or moon, her cheeks to roses, her teeth to pearls, her lips to rubies, and her tearful eyes to violets, bending with dew; if they sang of peace or war, love was ever mingled with their tale. Their roving pastoral life, and the scenes by which they were surrounded, gave a light and joyous character to the people. Dwelling in the Eden of the East, "Yernen," "the happy," they caught from nature the true spirit of poetry. Enjoying that leisure which seems the undisputed prerogative of a southern clime, and possessed of a language unsurpassed in richness or abundance, with minds in the highest degree romantic and im aginative, their feelings sought utterance in the strains of the poet. Even rhetoric, in the days of Arab splendor, put on the strange garb of verse. When writing sober prose, they still follow this poetic style, and throw an air of fairy-like romance around even the most abstruse sciences. A proneness to leave the substance and pursue the shadow, is, it must be confessed, but too often visible in almost every Arab writer. Carried away by their ardor, they were too apt to follow the subtle windings of their fancies, to the neglect of the truth. More fluent than profound, delighted with the mysteries and sophism of the Aristotelian school, they lacked solidity, and if tried by the utilitarian tenets of the present day, we fear would find but little favor. Their style, though sparkling and abounding in striking metaphors and elegant images, wants that depth which distinguishes the authors of more northern lands. The influence exerted by Arab literature over southern Europe, was undeniably great. From it the Provençals caught the lively measures and beautiful imagery, that give so true a charm to their sonnets, and by it rhyme was engrafted on their poetry. These obligations, however, are trivial, when compared with that which the world owes the followers of Mohammed for perpetuating and increasing the civilization which man had. formerly acquired; for cultivating the arts of peace, whilst Christendom was employed only in wars, and for devoting themselves to the pursuits of literature, when all around was sunk in darkness. History there preserved the past, and added from time to time new treasures to her store. Philosophy kept by practice the intellect undimmed. Knowledge, which never in the world's history has been without some city of refuge, there found a home, whilst Europe was chained and debased. The Arabians, by their literature springing from native talent, and enriched with the love of the past, imparted to the people that their arms had conquered, their own treasures. They swept the nations with resistless force, ruled for a time the widest empire that the world has seen, and passed away. But the spirit of learning survived their overthrow; they left behind them, though shrouded in gloom, the spark from which Europe's love of literature was rekindled, from which the fathers of Spanish and Italian song derived their inspiration, and from which proceeded the earliest tokens of the great revival of letters, which has rolled on in an unceasing triumph to the present day, and promises to roll on till "Death On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie, And time, with all his years and centuries, has passed by." N. LOVERS AND THE LOVED. AND what human being belongs not to both these classes? Love is more powerful than wealth. His domain is more extensive, his sway more unlimited, his authority more lasting, than those of kings. Riches cannot rule all hearts; kings have often fallen so low that none remained "so poor as do them reverence;" but few, very few, are obliged to bear the wretchedness of universal hatred. Love abides not merely in the dwellings of affluence and competence. He penetrates also the misery of the hovel, and sits down amid rags and want to comfort and to cheer the children of wretchedness. Mankind are all lovers, and all the objects of love. But we attempt not now so vast a theme. If Love calls the world his plantation, and everywhere beautifies it with his gentle culture, he may well be said to have one field, on which he exercises his caprices, sowing it with smiles and tears, joys and sorrows, roses and thorns, in strange entanglement and confusion. Many know of no other domain of Love than this tangled patch; and the world calls those who wander here, lovers and loved. With these we have now to do. A youth ourself, perhaps ourself a lover, we would lift a little the veil that hides the secrets of the youthful breast, spend some idle hours in classifying the lovers of our own sex, and glance, timidly indeed, at the fair ones who steal our hearts away. Let us first pursue the course of the lover in general, looking at him in the extremes of age, the young and the old lover. The young lover, timid and blushing, thinks the girls all angels, and she whom he loves, a seraph. He is a creature of ecstasy and rapture. By day, he moans to the winds the praises of his charmer, or, reclining on the banks of some bubbling rill, commits to the sparkling ripples the precious burden of his love. At night, she comes to him in his dreams, some pure being of another world, and imparts such a thrill of joy as wakes him from his sleep. But he cries not, "Alas, it was a dream," for he deems the vision of his dreams the real image of his earthly love. He knows not, that in truth, 'tis the image that he loves, and not the mortal one whom his fancy invests with unearthly charms. But the deception is a sweet one. In her smiles he finds an exhaustless mine of delight, and her frowns-but he never sees her frown, and at the worst is only a little jealous when she smiles on another. The young lover commonly has for the first object of his passion, a lady who has passed her teens. The ease and grace of her manners, the gentle dignity of her carriage, and her con |