We duly arrive at Alexandria, and proceed to Cairo. The mixed Levantine population of Alexandria gives little idea of the Haroun el Raschid element, which is the charm of life in Cairo, and e'en of it I must lament. The glory of Cairo is departing the waves of the nineteenth century, saturated with its so-called civilisation, are sweeping away the light footprints left by Eastern poetry upon the sunny, picturesque old city. Donkeys, as a means of locomotion for passengers, are ceasing to be used in Alexandria, in consequence of its newly-paved streets, and so is it likely soon to be the case in Cairo. The pariah dogs-the city scavengers-have succumbed to an edict by the Khedive for their destruction; the Nubian outrunner, preceding the carriages of the nobility, is now seen before the European parvenu or the wealthy tourist; houses of most quaint and picturesque architecture give way in their decrepitude to widened streets with arcades, as much alike to one another as the avenues of Paris, or, to degrade the comparison, as a row of Lancashire cottages. But still in the crowded dusty bazaars, with ragged screens floating in mid-air, and partially veiling the brilliant sunshine, which darts through the rent canvas and open spaces on to shimmering silver and gold and tawdry tinsel and glass, on to the rude colouring of mosques and doorways, and the many-complexioned people in many-tinted clothing, there are quiet corners where quaint bits of architecture, carved lintels, and curiously-wrought window screens, delight the observer. The spacious mosques have fine interiors, with interesting arabesques, and the courtyards of Saracenic houses possess curious old wells, and portals closed by embroidered curtains, or long, richly-wrought hangings, from the northern frontiers of Persia.

It is difficult to walk through these long, narrow ways without feeling dazed by such a wealth of artistic subjects;

the mind can neither grasp nor realise its surroundings. It is as though one were intoxicated with the most tempting and luscious wines. The clamour and movement seem incessant. It is the clamour and movement of a people who might have descended from another planet, so strangely do they present themselves to English eyes. This is how it may be seen to-day. How long it will take, so to say, to

improve" its present picturesque beauty off the face of the earth one knows not. We hope it will be long before the few, but lovely, traces of a past artistic greatness will succumb to the utilitarian haste of the transition stage, which is now creating tree-planted boulevards, great squares, and large mansions in its midst.

The journey to the Pyramids reminds one of the man who proposed going to one of the Poles so as to be able to translate himself into the far distant ages of the past by the simple process of walking round it from west to east, and thus going back upon the footsteps of Time. In a like manner I feel that the ascent to the base of the great pyramid of Ghizeh takes one back to the workmanship of a people who toiled at this enormous edifice four or five thousand years ago. One can feel the polished stones as finished by their hands, and be in touch with their work. We stand at the base of this enormous pile, on the north side, and descend into the excavation which has been made into the crumbled débris surrounding it, in order to see the portion of its smooth, white surface, which formerly covered the whole, up to its very pinnacle. With a geological instinct, one naturally begins to pull out the broken pieces of rock which have been slowly falling from its sides for thousands of years, and, attracted by one piece of stone of a different colour to the rest, it is found to be a fine museum specimen of the nummilitic limestone. Now the other stones not being of the