Upon a certain occasion, the particulars of which have already been
recorded, Ling had judged himself to have passed into the form of a
spirit on beholding the ethereal form of Mian bending over him. After
swallowing the entire liquid, which had cost the dead magician so much
to distil and make perfect, it was with a well-assured determination
of never again awakening that he lost the outward senses and floated
in the Middle Air, so that when his eyes next opened upon what seemed
to be the bare walls of his own chamber, his first thought was a
natural conviction that the matter had been so arranged either out of
a charitable desire that he should not be overcome by a too sudden
transition to unparalleled splendour, or that such a reception was the
outcome of some dignified jest on the part of certain lesser and more
cheerful spirits. After waiting in one position for several hours,
however, and receiving no summons or manifestation of a celestial
nature, he began to doubt the qualities of the liquid, and applying
certain tests, he soon ascertained that he was still in the lower
world and unharmed. Nevertheless, this circumstance did not tend in
any way to depress his mind, for, doubtless owing to some hidden
virtue of the fluid, he felt an enjoyable emotion that he still lived;
all his attributes appeared to be purified, and he experienced an
inspired certainty of feeling that an illustrious and highly-
remunerative future lay before one who still had an ordinary existence
after being both officially killed and self-poisoned.

In this intelligent disposition thoughts of Mian recurred to him with
unreproved persistence, and in order to convey to her an account of
the various matters which had engaged him since his arrival at the
city, and a well-considered declaration of the unchanged state of his
own feelings towards her, he composed and despatched with impetuous
haste the following delicate verses: