trials of other chemists have been attended with various results.  It is most difficult to procure the genuine Otto of Roses, since even in the countries where it is made, the distillers are tempted to put sandal wood, scented grasses, and other oily plants into the still with the roses, which alter their perfume, and debase the value of the Atar; colour is no test of genuineness; green, amber, and light red or pink.  The hues of the real otto, are also those of the adulterated; the presence of the sandal wood may be detected by the simple sense of smelling; but in order to discover the union of a grosser oil with the essential, drop a very little otto on a piece of clean writing paper, and hold it to the fire; if the article is genuine, it will evaporate without leaving a mark on the paper, so ethereal is the essential oil of roses! if otherwise, a grease-spot will declare the imposition.  I need scarcely expatiate upon the delicate and long-continuing fragrance which this luxuriant perfume imparts to all things with which it comes in contact; it is peculiarly calculated for the drawer, writing-desk, &c. since its aroma is totally unmingled with that most disagreeable effluvium, which is ever proceeding from alcohol.  Lavender-water, esprit de rose &c. &c. are quite disgusting shut up in box or drawer, but the Atar Gul, is as delightful there as in the most open and airy space.  Some persons there are, however, who have an antipathy to it, and others will, as they inhale its delicious odour, fancy with myself, what may be.

THE SONG OF THE ATAR GUL!

I’m come!  I’m come! for you’ve charm’d me here Soul of the Rose, from divine Cashmire I’m come,—­all orient, odorous, rare, An Eden-breath in your boreal air;

  I’m come.  I’m come! like a seraph’s sigh
  Breath’d to ethereal minstrelsy,
  And well ye’ll deem what a sigh must be
  From the tearless heirs of eternity!

  I’ve fled my bright frame from Tirnagh’s stream,
  And, wand’ring here, am sweet as the dream
  Of passion, which stirs the Peri’s breast,
  Whom her dear one’s winglets fan to rest;
  I’ve dwelt i’ the rose-cup, and drunk the tone—­
  Of my lover the Bulbul, all low and lone;
  And the maid’s soul-song, who forth hath crept,
  When pale stars peer’d, and night flow’rs wept.

  But oh! from the songs of Cashmire’s vale,
  The rose, the lute, and the nightingale,
  From flow’rs, whose odours were too divine;
  From gems of beauty whose souls were mine;
  From floating eyes, that could wound, yet bless,
  In their warm, dark, deep, voluptuousness;
  I’m come, in young iv’ry breasts to lie,
  Betray’d like Love, by my luscious sigh!

I’m come, and my holy, rich, perfume Makes faint your roses of palest bloom; Soul, as I am, of an orient gem, My aroma’s too divine for them; I’m come! but mine odorous, elfin wing Rises from earth, and that one fair thing First Love’s first sigh, which ye know to be, More exquisite, and more brief than me!

M.L.B.