original, solitude or desert. And this is the oldest and most estimable of lands".

"This sand?" inquired the Pacha.

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No; but this East which has mothered us all, sending out of its apparently sterile womb race after race whose wildness has been tamed into wisdom, and whose genius, early fed with grandeur and simplicity on the luxuriant shores of this river, and in the solitude of the wilderness, has ripened into the Art and Literature and Religion which has made us, and which we cherish."

"Well!"

"Well, Pacha, eschewing the leathery tea which the Commander is getting ready, you shall breakfast upon the styles and titles of the Prince of this renowned land. You will agree that they become the dignity and character of the realm. They will not seem absurd to you in this tent, although they would seem so in the club and counting-house; and they will impart a fine flavour to your desert reveries. Pacha, perpend, I by the infinite grace of the great, just, and omnipotent Creator, and by the innumerable miracles of the chief of prophets, Emperor of powerful Emperors, the Refuge of Sovereigns, Distributor of Crowns to the Kings of the Earth, servant of the thrice sacred cities, (Mecca and Medina,) Governor of the holy city of Jerusalem,

master of Europe, Asia, and Africa, conquered by our victorious sword and by our terrific lance, Lord of three seas (White, Black, and Red), of Damascus the odour of Paradise, of Bagdad, the seat of the Caliphs, of the fortresses of Belgrade, Agria, and a multitude of countries, islands, straits, nations, generations, and of so many victorious armies which repose beneath the shadow of our sublime Porte, I—the shadow of God on earth ?""

That is the name of the king of this country, the style of the Sultan; and it is as sensible and sonorous as the "Defender of the Faith," applied to the English King George the Fourth, or "Most Christian King" to the last Sovereigns of France.

I like these glittering shreds and patches, and remnants of magnificence. Despite the gentle Juliet, the melody of the name should accord with the sweetness of the odour, and the name of the Sultan ungarnished with these thundering tailpieces would be as little agreeable as the prefix of "puissant" to our own President. The Sultan is the Lord of three seas, and of the odour of Paradise, and of the seat of the Caliphs; but what faith did George the Fourth ever defend, except that extraordinary creed of his being the first gentleman in Europe? And what were the

shining "Christian" virtues of the Bourbon Kings

of France ?

While we sat, pleasing fancy with this pompous prelude of the Sultan's laws, the sun rose through the morning vapours, like the full red moon. Khadra, the Armenian's beautiful daughter, stepped into her palanquin. The Germans who had paid specified piastres for the vision of the East, were already seasick upon their camels, and were disappearing toward the horizon with their one-eyed keeper; and the venerable-bearded Armenian paced up on his white mare to offer the morning salute to El Shiraz and MacWhirter.

The Commander had retired to a little distance, and was purposing to perform the Wudoo, or ablution for prayer, sprinkling sand upon his hands, for the prophet permits sand to be used in a scarcity of water. The father of our Shekh ambled off upon his little donkey alone, over the hard, level desert, as naturally and unconcernedly as a grayhaired mariner in a cock-boat in the midst of the ocean. Hamed drew the halter over his shoulder, and with short quick steps led our caravan once more upon its way.

The sense of freedom and satisfaction in the desert-life to those who are bred in the harassing details of civilisation, has been well sung. Yet in

reading books of travel, we take words for things, and forget in the theoretical familiarity with strange experiences, how exciting the experience will be. In my own wandering, I have observed that the reality always blotted from memory the many pictures which books had painted there; and the endless volumes of travel which are published, spring, I am sure, not only from the selfish wish to make a book, but from the unselfish desire to communicate impressions which are so vivid in natural experience, that they seem to be entirely

new.

Thus I entered Rome in the dusk of an autumn day, and without seeing any ruin or point of fame, was awakened by a heavy thunder-shower in the night. As I lay listening to the crashing peals, I could only say "Rome, Rome," and wondered in the fury of a fearful burst of the storm, if it had not struck St. Peter's. Then I besought memory to tell me what it knew of St. Peter's, but it only smiled inarticulately, and indicated a sublime architectural vastness. What the details were, what pictures were there, what statues, what statistics of measurement, it did not tell, though it had enjoyed such ample opportunities to know, and my only other consolation of knowledge in that moment, was the conviction that somewhere

in the shadow of St. Peter's, the Miserere was sung during the holy week.

So when I passed down the long gallery of the Vatican, hastening to the Apollo and the Transfiguration, casts and engravings vanished from remembrance, and the charm of the statue and of the picture was as original as if I had been the first spectator of their beauty.

So, as you mount MacWhirter and follow the boy Hamed into the desert, its breath blows you a welcome, and the same breath disperses the fancies you bring with you. You breathe inspiration and exhilaration. That latent germ of the Asian and Bedoueen which inheres in you, responds to the cool, vast silence, to the Arabian horizon. You are nomadic, you a wanderer, and you must needs dream of a life under the coarse, shapeless, black tents of the Arabs which we are passing, and wonder if Khadra yonder, the large-eyed, oliveskinned Armenian girl, would follow you for ever, and willingly share with you in those sandy solitudes, the rice, lentils, butter and dates, which are the staple food of the Bedoueen.

But as we coast along the green sand, while the warm southerly gale freshens, and we enter upon a tract of pure Sahara, over which the dead white light glares and burns, the imagination grows more