ing, your donkey getting invariably involved amongst the animal's ungainly legs, dragging its rider underneath the leaky water-skins, with which nine out of ten of the huge beasts are laden)— the perplexities and perils of the way, to say nothing of such incidental damp ers, quite quenched my antiquarian ardour, at least in that direction there, in a lone, neglected spot, rising amidst decay and desolation, stands the said obelisk; two sides thereof severely damaged in the hieroglyphical department; but, nevertheless, a fine old gaunt memorial of bygone timesa speaking record of the past-with mystic characters that still survive the wear, and waste, and ruthless hand of ages. The sister pillar has not manifested a like spirit of stern independence; indeed the ancient lady appears to have given over all idea of standing up for old times; so sulkily, half-hid in rubbish, she lies full length, seeking an unregarded grave amidst the ancient ruins. Arriving, in our ramble, at the city gates, we came suddenly on a detachment of the basha's infantry, "who guard the station," some patriarchal cannon on superannuated carriages cunningly assisting them to keep the post-for, being snugly stowed under the ramparts, the ambuscade is so complete and subtle, that the invader could not guess at even their existence, until in his unwariness he had scaled the wall-then, however, from their position, the guns -not the adversary-must be fairly hors-de-combat. Now, the warriors themselves were worthy only of their antiquated ordnance an ill-looking, unsoldierlike set of vagabonds, in flannel jackets, cotton drawers, naked feet, slipshod slippers, turbooshes, crazy musquets, and most filthy countenances. Some were knitting (garters I took for granted), others snored calmly on the flags, whilst some few, in a state of semi-somnambulism, parading with their firelocks, pretended to mount guard. And these were the defenders of the country! Yet, considering the raw material from which the basha's army has been manufac tured, what better class of soldiery could one expect? I have seen whole troops of unfortunate peasants, who were torn from their helpless families, chained neck and neck, and marched through the streets of Cairo, to be metamorphosed into soldiers.

Under

the present dynasty in Egypt, in fact, every thing is forced-manufactures are forced-agriculture forced-—reformation throughout the pakalate is exotic. The country is forced to maintain itself, as they say of the bear in winter, by sucking its own paws. Verily, if matters go on as they are going much longer, the nation will, in real earnest, not be left a leg to stand on. All the better for old England, if she can set her claw on that very fertile, most convenient, but much mismanaged land of Egypt. Gently, old lady, your time may come-you are not in your dotage yet.

But as we are so far on our road, let us get on, and take a look at Pompey's Pillar. Here, on this height, bedaubed with sundry autographs of discriminating travellers, stands the column of Dioclesian. The base, as you perceive, is sadly injured; but is not the shaft a noble one? Here was the highest site of ancient Alexandria. What a vast and glorious prospect it once commanded. What temples, palaces, vast collossii, stately obelisks the feathery palm-tree, with its sprayey foliage towering above the courts of noble edifices, or shading some long avenue of sphynxes, as its branches rustled in the gentle breeze. Beneath the eye, luxurious gardens spread their varied beauties where marble fountains cooled the perfume-burdened air; whilst the wide unruffled Marcotis sparkled like molten silver in the noonday sun. How drear and desolate the prospect now! That arid plain below us, through which a pack of howling dogs are prowling after prey; that lonely burial-ground, dotted with thickly-planted graves; the dull white wall which bounds the distant city, obtruding its paltry insignificance upon our recollections of its bygone greatness-legibly is it written here- The fashion of the world passeth away." But, even on this lonely spot, one is not permitted to indulge a moment's quiet. Here come a whole bevy of Arab urchins, with fragments of the desecrated column-pebbles picked up at random, tiny little tortoises, and divers other curiosities for sale.

tourists, discussing hieroglyphics in high Dutch! Nothing remains for us but to retreat precipitately, "without beat of drum."

As my companion and I returned through the cemetery, we encountered one of the frequent funerals which, at the time, used almost hourly to arrive there.

First walked some male mourners, chanting, in a low, wild, plaintive tone -strange, but not unmusical-preceding the bier. Then came the dead, borne on mens' shoulders, in a long, narrow crib, not unlike the cholera cribs which we used at home during the period of that terrible visitationa train of female mourners, shrouded in white, brought up the funeral procession good, substantial-looking ghosts, advancing two and two, who raised, at intervals, a shrill, ear-piercing cry, and then laughed and chatted

together, as if they had no part whatever in the sad solemnity.

Shade of Virgilius Maro! how unthinkingly you stigmatised womankind -as varium et mutabile; but stay, the "semper" saves you. That which is "ever" any thing must be of necessity unchanging; so from the days of Eve, has lovely woman been unchanging as unchanged-true to woman's nature, the varium et mutabile—though inconstant to all else besides.

But is this essentially a woman's nature? Nay, fair and learned lady, don't ask me to stand in this dusty burial-ground, under this burning sun, to investigate so deep a subject. Permit me to retrace my steps to my hotel, and after dinner I promise you to philosophise on this or any other subject, at leisure, with my pipe. O dolce far niente, Latakea is the incense for the brain.

I AM on the top of a southern mail, and I know the man beside me is an "old traveller." How indelibly graven on my observation are the signs and tokens of this class. Your real "old traveller" is never very young, and selseldom above the middle height. A son of Anak can hardly be a bonâ fide old traveller, being generally so lost in admiration of his large proportions, that he has no time to hive the wisdom and deep experience peculiarly belonging to the character. Neither is your old traveller a handsome fellow-his head is generally bald or fast verging to that condition-his forehead broad and wrinkled, and transversely marked by a slight line, which shows where his faithful companion, the hat or cap, has rested for hours on its intellectual support. The eyebrows are square, grizzled, bushy; and the eye, underneath, has a grey sharpness that baffles all attempts to look it down.

An

old traveller may have a Grecian or Roman nose; but, with so classic a nasal organ, he can never attain to the highest ranks among those sons of genius. Julius Cæsar wrote commentaries, and conquered kingdoms; but he was no great old traveller, or he would not have wetted himself to the

skin crossing the Rubicon. The lips

of the old traveller are characteristic also, and are applied closely together when their owner is not speaking; for your old traveller can always breathe nasally; he is too cautious to know anything of colds in either head or chest. An ambitious coxcomb wraps himself in as many coats and cloaks as Hamlet's philosophic gravedigger sports waistcoats, and then supposes he is authorized to assume the name of old traveller-vain and impotent conclusion? Your real old traveller never descends to the puppyism of external ostentation. His coats and overalls are more remarkable for quality than quantity; and when he has wrapped himself therein, the winds of heaven may roar in the fury of their power; the "big drops" may come "pelting

from the sky," but firm and impenetrable as the hoary strength of the everlasting hills, is the external man of your old traveller. He is not confined to any particular vehicle-you may meet him in the steam-coach, on the blazoned mail, or on the humble side of Bianconi's humblest car. He is more partial to the outside of the conveyance not altogether from economical motives—but it is a situation not so liable as the inside to several little annoyances; such as squalling babies, and spiteful bachelors pinching them; or hysterical young ladies who want the windows up when the rest of the party wish them down, and vice versû.

When your old traveller dismounts at a "changing" stage, it is not to plunge into a pot-house, to consume porter or whiskey; he has his proper pocket-pistol, temperately charged with grog, and from this he takes a moderate draught, then looks keenly at the springs of the vehicle, and resumes his seat. Follow him to the breakfast stage-he never waits to help down a trembling fair one, who has sat beside him for some fifteen miles; and when, by the assistance of a person belonging to another class of travellers, the said fair one has entered the coffee-room, she finds the old traveller deep in his third egg, or stoutly and silently assailing his second helping of beefsteak. A large cup of tea stands near the more substantial viands, in order that the cool air of heaven may fan it; after which the old traveller consumes it rapidly, without any danger of scalding. But as the coach approaches the more important dinner-stage, observe how he divests himself of his outer garments before it stops, in order that no time may be lost preparatory to the onslaught. He never carves for the company in generalnot he he leaves that to some foolishly polite greenhorn, and sneers internally (like the monarch in "the revolt of Islam"), even while receiving a plen

tiful supply from the very person who forms the subject of his contempt. "Like the ghost of Alonzo the brave," he speaks not during the repast. He directs his main assault on the joint of fresh meat, and employs the light infantry of digestion on the chickens, and why?-because the leg or shoulder of mutton costs most, and the greater havoc the old traveller can make in its substance, the less will the innkeeper gain at his expense. Mark, too, how he disposes of the chickens-the fleshy masses vanish in a manner truly wonderful; but he never picks a bone— osteology at an inn is too tedious a science to find a pupil in the old traveller. Neither does he partake of mine host's cabbage-not from any personal dislike he has to that vegetable-but it is too apt to exercise the action of a "damper;" and there is neither value nor nourishment in a drum-head. Observe how he manages his punch: his first act is to order two tumblers to be mixed, and there they stand cooling, until his dinner is finished, and when the horn sounds, the contents of the

two tumblers are amongst the things that were; while the same signal summons away the green traveller from a reeking bowl, too hot for him to finish, much to the satisfaction of the fishy eye and thirsty lips of the waiter. Then, after dinner, follow him to the coach, and where does he seat himself?

behind the luggage, with his back to the horses. What cares he for the prospect of the country, compared with the prospect of a quiet digestion; and the old traveller's experience has told him, that the north wind, blowing full in his face, is apt to interfere with that process. And, when he reaches his hostelrie for the night, look at him in mysterious colloquy with the chamber-maid, and mark the result. whose are the bedclothes in the kitchen, before a roaring fire, and “my dukedom to a beggarly denier," you will be told they are the old traveller's. Oh, there are no thoughts of damp sheets, pleurisies, and rheumatics, to make night hideous, and frighten sleep from the couch of the old traveller.

Ask

CRACK-crack-with smoking horses, sounding bugle, and increased speed, we enter a country town. Fifty bony cur-dogs are barking our welcome six or seven half-naked children are yelling our avatar from the top of each family dunghill, that stands in front of the family cabin; a tight little island, its base washed by the pensive waters of the green and stagnant pool that surrounds it, and as much fructifying gas escaping from it, as would call forth the essenced pouncet-box of a Brummel, or the philosophic pity of a Liebig. We have to run the gauntlet for nearly a quarter of a mile between the mud cabins that line the road; our noisy welcome telegraphed from cur-dog to cur-dog, from dunghill to dunghill. Now, we breathe the more aristocratic atmosphere of the town; the houses on each side of us built in a manner that shews every founder consulted his own purse, or pleased his fancy in their erection, without paying any regard to regularity in the small city of which he was a denizen. In one part, the slated house, two, or, by'r Lady, three stories

high, boldly projects, with its blinded windows, and its bright-green halldoor, flanked on either side by a pillar, wavingly coloured brown, yellow, white, and black-an artful imitation of some unknown species of marble. By its side, and modestly retiring from the front, stands the thatched cottage; the space before the door filled with sickly evergreens, and the rustic paling, which separates it from the road, supported in the rear by a thorny hedge, cut into various and fantastic shapes. Between these two extremes, there are tenements of all sizes and quality, occupied by all descriptions of tenants. The shops of the felt-hat maker and milliner are separated by the abode of the learned apothecary, and flanked by the houses of the village gentlemen— dreamy, idle personages; lighting the tapers of their pride at the phosphorescent dignity of their ancestors' rotten bones-fatal enemies to the trout, which form the essential prop of their dinner-tables, and wearing out an existence, the waters of which are only stirred by the bustle of a fair-day and petty-sessions; or driven into some

thing like a current by a contested election, with the duels and law-suits that may be consequent thereon.

Away-away-on our right hand we are leaving a square stone building, with high and embattled walls-with a stern facing of dark masonry, unbroken, save in front by the deep arched gateway where three hard-featured turnkeys are playing head-and-harp before the iron door. There is a sentinel, too, pacing his measured round and pausing occasionally to look with quiet smile at the turnkeys' game. It is the county jail; and the driver of the coach has just told us the outline of the story of one of its condemned tenants, who is to be hanged to-morrow morning. It is easy to fill up the colouring of the dark picture. There is a small cell, and on the iron bed which it contains is stretched the frame of a man whose years are yet few, but on whose damp forehead an early and ignominious death has fixed its certain seal. Against the wall a lamp is dimly burning, and throwing its cheerless light on the figures of the criminal and the man who watches him, to see that suicide shall not rob the gallows of its victim. The felon's face is white and worn-a course of fiery sin and six weeks of a prison's horrors have written their traces on his cheek, and the last two days have added thereto the dull hue of despair; for the ermined judge told him there was no hope of mercy, and he must die to-morrow. The heavy stillness is only broken by the breathing of the two men, and the deep tones of the prison bell striking the hours of night as they proceed. How must the stretched nerve of his doomed ear make bitter registry of that voice which will soon be dumb to him for ever. Eleven has just struck, and its echo seems hardly to have passed away, when the bell begins to toll twelve. But tired nature yields, and he sleeps; and if for a moment there be a scene of happy childhood before his haunted vision, it is only for a moment, because there are gibbering fiends, fearfully like the bad companions who walked the same path of sin with him, thronging in on him, and pointing the finger of scorn at their former friend; but, worst of all, he sees the pale form of the girl who loved him, and whom he wronged and murdered. He starts again into wakefulness, and hears that two hours more

have passed away, and that, probably, the sun is rising and lighting the free parts of the world-the condemned cell knows nothing of his rays. But it is yet to shine on him for a few horrid minutes of life, after which its beams will be apt, for an hour every fine day, to penetrate as far as the small mound which marks his dishonored grave, within the prison's precincts.

Neither is that cell the only scene of the tragedy. My attention has been pointed to a cottage near the road side, within whose walls may be heard the sobs and cries of a mother's grief, and the half-smothered bursts of a father's strong agony. He was their only child; and if they did not curb his passions as they should have done, heaven pardon the blindness of a parent! It is long before a father's pride can be brought to read sin upon the face of his only child; and it must be a black cloud of shame and sorrow that can dim the hopes of a mother. She heard he was taken up for murder, and was almost glad of it, for she saw nothing before him but a triumphant acquittal. The word "Guilty" did not destroy her hopes; she was sure the judge would interfere. She saw him put on the black cap-heard him hold out no hope of pardon, and name the third day following for his death, before sense and consciousness left her with one prolonged and horrid scream. That evening, the judge was the honored guest of a man of wealth and station; and, as he walked smilingly through a plantation in his host's demesne before dinner, a solitary woman fell down before him, and asked him for her only child.

"Give me my son-give him back to me! We'll beg with him a thousand miles from this, if that will satisfy you; and we'll give everything we have to the friends of the woman they said he murdered. But sure you don't believe it? I tell you, it's all a lie; he never murdered her. Oh, give him back to me!"

There is a district mad-house, too, in that county town, and I cannot pass it without a short reflection. I should not smile carelessly within its walls, but neither ought my feelings therein be those of unmingled melancholy. Madness is often a boon for which to be thankful. Never tell me that the man who now walks along