ONE day, I was sitting in one of the noble houses of that city, when a strange circumstance came before my view. I saw a man going on all fours, and naked, with a knife in each hand, which he struck with all his might against his body. His blood was flowing from numberless mortal wounds, which he had inflicted on his trunk, and head, and face. In this way he continued; and at every wound that he struck himself, he appeared to feel satisfaction and delight: but he said not a word. I asked what his circumstances were, and was told, that his name was Ismail, and that he had fallen in love with a person, who had since died. On being informed of the melancholy event, he fainted away, and when he came to himself again, went distracted with madness. He tore the clothes off his body, and seized the knives; and had now been some days in this condition. I said, Why do they not take the knives from him? They replied, His strength is so great, that it is most difficult to take the knives out of his hands. A number of persons threw him down, and attempted to seize them; but he made supplications, and shewed such a disposition and feeling, that the persons said, If we take away his knives, he will expire the same instant. They therefore aban­doned him to himself. The most wonderful cir­cumstance was, that any wound, which he inflicted on himself in the morning, if he refrained from again striking the same spot, would by evening be perfectly healed. On subsequent enquiry con­cerning him I was told, that three days afterwards, having crawled out of the city, he struck a knife into his side, which cut his entrails. He fell, and yielded up his soul.

Lines.*

Those who have chosen to themselves the pain of love, are all

Quiet reposers on the road of martyrdom.

In the scene of conflict of the two worlds, victory belongs to love,

Though all his warriors meet the death of martyrs.