gold like the generals of the army; but the most extraordinary thing about them was, there having their heads covered with ashes, like the Hindoo fakirs-a custom indicative with us of sorrow and repentance.  I hardly could help laughing when I looked at them; but a friend kindly explained to me that, in England, none but the servants of the great are privileged to have ashes strewed on their heads, and that for this distinction their masters actually pay a tax to government!  ‘Is this enjoined by their religion?’ said I.  ‘Oh no!’ he replied.  ‘Then,’ said I, ’since your religion does not require it, and it appears, to our notions at least, rather a mark of grief and mourning, where is the use of paying a tax for it?’ ’it is the custom of the country.’ said he again.  After this I returned hone, musing deeply on what I had seen.”

With this inimitable sketch, we take leave of the Khan for the present, shortly to return to his ideas of men and manners in Feringhistan.

* * * * *

THE BANKING-HOUSE.

A HISTORY IN THREE PARTS.  PART I.

CHAPTER I.

PROSPECTIVE.

If, as Wordsworth, that arch-priest of poesy, expresses it, I could place the gentle reader “atween the downy wings” of some beneficent and willing angel, in one brief instant of time should he be deposited on the little hill that first discovers the smiling, quiet village of Ellendale.  He would imbibe of beauty more in a breath, a glance, than I can pour into his soul in pages of spiritless delineation.  I cannot charm the eye with that great stream of liquid light, which, during the long and lingering summer’s day, issues from the valley like an eternal joy; I cannot fascinate his ear, and soothe his spirit with nature’s deep mysterious sounds, so delicately slender and so soft, that silence fails to be disturbed, but rather grows more mellow and profound; I cannot with a stroke present the teeming hills, flushed with their weight of corn, that now stands stately in the suspended air—­now, touched by the lightest wind that ever blew, flows like a golden river.  As difficult is it to convey a just impression of a peaceful spot, whose praise consists—­so to speak—­rather in privatives than positives; whose privilege it is to be still free, tranquil, and unmolested, in a land and in an age of ceaseless agitation, in which the rigorous virtues of our fathers are forgotten, and the land’s integrity threatens to give way.  If Ellendale be not the most populous and active village, it is certainly the most rustic and winning that I have ever beheld in our once merry England.  It is secreted from the world, and lies snugly and closely at the foot of massive hills, which nature seems to have erected solely for its covert and protection.  It is situated about four miles from the high-road, whence you obtain at intervals