and a man, or successive men, beat a drum on shore, in some religious ceremony, all night long. A verdict of “Temporary Insanity” would have justified anything that a man might have done under these inflictions.

Saturday, 13th. I routed all the men up at six, and, as there was the usual lack of wind, set them to work. They grumbled at going into the water whilst it was so cold; but I soon settled this, and at seven we were fairly off. I was so heartily sick of the boat, with its delays and inconveniences, that we stopped at a village and tried to get some camels or donkeys to ride on to Cairo, “across country.” The people, however, were so miserably poor, they had nothing; and I was getting altogether out of heart, when a brisk wind sprang up and blew us along bravely, under a press of sail that almost lifted the kandjia out of the water. About noon Giovanni showed us the Pyramids on the horizon, and soon after we rounded the apex of the Delta. Provisions were running short, but it was not worth while to buy any more; so I had a “ scratch” dinner of. maccaroni, potatoes, onions, and ricepudding, all chopped up together and fried, which was really capital. The wind kept up, and by and bye we came to the great works erected for the barrage of the Nile, which is to cost a great deal and not ultimately answer. Then villages came quickly after one another, and the people thickened on the banks. Anon palaces, kioskos, and beautiful gardens, diversified the prospect; the crowd of boats increased; the Pyramids rose higher above the scenery. Then I saw minarets and towers, off and away on our left; and at last, just in time to save ourselves from being locked out for the night, the kandjia stopped at one of the landing places of Boolak, the port of Cairo.

Giovanni soon procured donkeys, and, leaving the boat in charge of the Arabs, we rode off. We first passed through Boolah, with swarms of dogs yelping after us — as many as I had seen at Constantinople; then along neat Oriental streets, with picturesque wooden-latticed windows and garden-walls, over which we saw dates and prickly pears growing; and at last, traversing a cool, English-looking road, bordered with acacias, I entered Cairo at the Esbekeyah, and pulled up at the British Hotel, delighted beyond all measure to have done, for at least some time, with the Nile and the kandjia.



Those days were bright and pleasant days,

When I did fill the lover's part :
I dreamed your heart was all my own;

I knew that you had all my heart.

I wish that we again were young;

I wish that we again were true : I know not if the sin be mine,

Or if the fault be hid in you :

But cloud, and change, and evil tongues,

Have crept between our thoughts at last; And doubt and fear alone are here,

Whilst joy has vanished with the past.

Yet — though we may no more be young,

I would that we again were true;
Ah! dream that bounteous Autumn still

Hath sweets-some sweets — for me and you.

The violet with the Spring is gone;

The red rose with the Summer hours : But still the orange yields its gold,

And-once again- its bridal flowers !



In one of the northern counties of England stands an ancient almshouse, which in my early days I remember to have been told was once a religious establishment. It has still its "lofty refectory and cloisters surrounding a broad sunny court; in the centre of which plays a fountain, now almost concealed by the thick growth of the lime-trees and hollies which overshadow it. Above the cloisters are the nun-like cells of the recipients of the charity, confined to the widow and the orphan; they who have no home or kindred, and it may be, interest, beyond this place. It has a chapel, small it is true, but beautiful as a miniature cathedral: it had been used no less for a place of worship than as a mausoleum for countless generations by the family by whom it had been endowed. Here the coloured effigy of the founder, with its quaint inscription, mingled with the choice productions of the Italian chisel, telling of promising Youth that had faded in the far sunny land, of some who had perished by the sword, and others who, rich in years and honours, had been gathered, like the full ear in the harvest. But there was one death-memorial, neither elaborate or beautiful, that I have gazed upon with a thousand times more interest than all the rest, as I have seen it, lit up by the rays of the sun that gleamed upon it through the rainbow hues of the chancel window. It is a small, rudely chiselled sarcophagus of marble, in shape a heart, fixed, and forming part of the step by which alone the officiating minister can reach the aitar. There is no date upon its smoothly worn surface, and the cipher is almost illegible. In childhood, though in the habit of constantly seeing it, I returned again and again to look upon it; and dreamy youth, fostered in the old mansion of Hazlehurst, awoke in my heart a mournful interest in this lonely tomb, seemingly so relentlessly disposed, as if to humiliate the poor dust it enclosed. There was no legend attached to it, as far as I could hear, beyond it having arrived from a foreign land, and of rich funds that accrued to the institution on its being placed in the chapel there, by which more than two hundred of the sick and poor were comforted and sustained.

My skill in deciphering the quaint caligraphy in which the closely-written records of St. Olave's were preserved had often been called into requisition, and, looking carefully through the MS. last winter, I was attracted by a cipher similar to the one which had for so many years kept its place and interest in my memory. The following brief notes were the result of my search, and threw all the light that I could glean from the dark pages, the partly destroyed leaves of a closely-written diary :

“I have returned from the mausoleum of Hazlehurst to-day -I have read over the records of those who have gone before me, in order to feel my own identity, and to know if this shattered frame indeed contains the spirit that once, strong and hopeful, owned a fairer dwelling. Oh, Death, how lovely seemest thou to my longing heart !—the Angel Death, the deliverer!

“The costly monument here tells of my mother, who died of a malignant disorder ; of a sister, who, young, beautiful, beloved, soon followed her to the grave; and another !-So it is. None read beyond the surface of the stone; and well it is we cannot pierce the grave's deep secrets, and hear the plaints of

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