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with shining steel or leather scabbards. The, divan, where the Pacha sat, was a large lofty room at the further end, carpetted, and supplied with some very costly cushions for persons to lie against. The Pacha was an old reverend-looking man with a majestic air, and long, white beard, and he sat against one of these large cushions. He seemed about seventy years of age, and very handsome and dignified in appearance: he was dressed in a long costly robe of cloth of gold. When I entered from the further end of the room he was engaged with two office men, whom he instantly waved with his hand to, and they went away; then the servant brought me the long pipe and coffee, and the pacha had his pipe also. I had for an interpreter an Armenian doctor who spoke Italian, in which language I said what I had to say, and the doctor, who sat in a corner, translated it into Turkish for the pacha. The topics of discourse were the usual commonplaces of the news of the day. The intellectual character of the Asiatics, even of the first-rank, certainly receives little culture. As we returned from the Consul's this evening, we saw two Arabs playing backgammon in one of the coffee-houses, and though they had dice they had no box, so used their hands. When the game went against them they swore, blew on the dice, and exhibited other frantic-looking antics. I had an opportunity of seeing here bow very much debased the coin is by the Turks, as in asking for change of a dollar the shopkeeper in the bazaar told me he could give twenty-five piastres; but on showing a Spanish dollar, such was his joy at getting the coin of intrinsic value that he gave me twenty-seven. I saw here numbers of the hajees or pilgrims bound for Mecca, of which there are such countless numbers in the east: the miseries and privations which some of these endure are horrible to think of. The consul told me that this pilgrimage was in many cases a piece of imposition, as it was very common in Cairo and elsewhere for a man of wealth to give a large sum for the certificate to some one who had really made the pilgrimage, and got the said certificate. Mecca is about fifty miles from this port. The cheats practised on the pilgrims or hajees there are countless, and the inhabitants look to these for their livelihood. Nineteenth of May, this morning, we were taken in tow by a pilot in a native craft who threaded our ship through the dangerous narrow strait lying between the reefs of coral, and when we were clear of them a breeze sprang up and took us out to sea; the tacking to and fro and the avoiding the coralreefs formed the principal part of the subsequent voyage. The view of land occasionally formed a marked feature in the course of the different days' career. This vast range of heights on the Nubian coast, called the Emerald mountains, showed like a series of pyramids. We passed the site of the city of Berenice, which is now but

an assemblage of fishing-huts. On the afternoon of the twenty-third, when we were off Cape Bareedy a fine bald-looking land with ranges of mountains in the back-ground, but, as usual barren. We saw a Bedouin camp, which had the appearance of a few rude huts. One day we had a calm, and took up some coral to examine it. In its first growth it is tender and seems like a compound of animal and vegetable life; the interior was as soft as a polypus or seaanemone: it was of a muddy grey colour. There is also a sort of black coral which much more resembles a petrified plant; of this last, the beads which form the Mussulmans' rosary are composed. On the twenty-ninth we entered into a road for ships, where there were some Arab crafts, and the water was so deep that there was much delay and even damage to be apprehended by anchoring there. The town which surrounded this Egyptian port was composed of mud-huts, gloomy, bleak, and utterly devoid of either herbage or cultivation. There was a large fort constructed like a mud-redoubt on the upper face of the works and riveted on the lower part in the turrets at the angles were two heavy guns mounted; two of these turrets were square and two round. There was a fine wooden jetty in the centre of the bay, or rather it should be called the roadstead for ships. Here, then, we had at last reached terra-firma, and we ended our very long and tiresome sea-voyage. This was the long-expected Cossier. Nobis parta quies nullum maris æquor arandum. The passing through the desert by Suez, although it had not then become such an every-day feat as it is now, was yet a very uninteresting affair. There was none of the interest of getting an insight into the desert life, of being free from the host of parties which are passing and repassing, and being also at liberty to take one's own time to halt or for movement. But the crowning advantage we had before us was the prospect of seeing Thebes, that wonderful city of the desert, which yet displays the most magnificent ruins to be met with in the world.

I was surprised in looking over Herodotus and Strabo, to find nothing like an account of the grandeur which marks the buildings at Thebes; the former writer only mentioning the customs which prevailed in the country, and the latter adverting to the extent of the city. Of all that the ancient writers say, with the exception of the well-known words of Homer, I find nothing at all descriptive of the grandeur of Thebes. Before the French went there in the time of Napoleon's invasion, I do not think the world were at all cognizant of the wondrous extent and the magnificent character of these temples. So I anticipated with great interest an opportunity of making an excursion through the desert from Cossier to Thebes. [The Latin quotation at p. 128, commencing Nil me contulerim," should be "Nilego", &c.]

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MRS. JENKINS'S EVENING PARTY.

BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.

"The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley."-ROBERT BURNS,

The great delight of Mrs. Septimus Jenkins | his name-sake and its parents: hence their rise was to give evening parties; a taste which, it in the world. may be observed, is not very singular among ladies of her age and standing in the world; and though she had peculiarities of character, which to her intimates distinguished her sufficiently from the throng, mere acquaintances thought her little else than a commonplacegood-sort-of-woman-of-the-world kind of personage. Mrs. Septimus Jenkins was the wife of a solicitor, with a thriving practice in the county town of Dilton, and the mother of a growing-up family, whose ages ranged from a son of one-and-twenty, "articled" to his father, to a little maiden of seven. Her own age was a subject of doubt and speculation, but was probably guessed within a year or two. She often mentioned that she married very early; and she dressed, though well, in a style a little too juvenile for a matron of forty. Á bottle of hair-dye had once been detected on her toilettable; and she was fond of a very subdued daylight in her drawing-room, especially during the hours when morning visitors are most likely to present themselves.

Mr. Septimus Jenkins, was a sensible, plodding, honourable man of business, liking his profession, and working hard at it. He was fifty years of age, as he said himself, and, as could be easily ascertained, for a reason to be given presently, were the exact truth of the slightest consequence to know. It was clear he had no collateral interest in the bottle of hair-dye, for his head was bald, all but a fringe, which was decidedly and avowedly grizzly. He was of what is called obscure origin; the child of humble, but honest parents; and had been named after an eccentric bachelor, to whom his parents had been servants, one Mr. Septimus Vernon, a magistrate of the county, and who chanced to die the very week after his godchild's christening. A marble tablet in the principal church of Dilton was a perpetual reminder of this event, and, consequently, fixed the age of Mr. Septimus Jenkins with some accuracy, supposing, as was natural, that at the period of christening that portly personage was an innocent, helpless baby, in long clothes. On opening the will of the old bachelor, it was found that ample provision had been made for

The name being a singular one, Mrs. Septimus Jenkins had sometimes been asked "if her husband was a seventh son ?"-and, on these occasions, she always replied, "an only child !" accompanying the words with a perfectly indescribable turn of the head and modulation of the voice, as if the circumstance were one of which she was humbly proud; yet acknowledging that he was named after a seventh son, with a precisely similar proud humility, which intimated that this also was an honour to be meekly borne. But, countless were the occasions which arose for the display of her peculiar manner. If one of her children was called good, or pretty, or clever, whatever the mother said, the declaration of her looks was, "How can I help it?" and if an acquaintance admired the fashion of her new bonnet, Mrs. Septimus was constrained to admit that her bonnets always were becoming, though rather deprecating the circumstance than otherwise. From this brief sketch, I hope the reader perceives that the character of Mrs. Septimus Jenkins was shaded with a soupçon of affectation.

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Mrs. Septimus gave parties frequently; as often as she could, by any witchery of persuasion, convince her husband that there was absolute necessity for one. Birthdays, weddingday, the visit of a schoolfellow to Isabella Maria, or the desire to entertain an eligible acquaintance of Adolphus, or, in fact, any occasion which presented a plausible excuse, she made the most of: acting the victim, however, all the while-a victim, compelled by inexorable fate, to disarrange her house, and disturb her family arrangements for a length of time graduated to the scale and importance of the partyfrom the yearly ball, with chalked floors and balcony covered in, or heavy, solemn, pornpous dinners, to the friendly carpet-dance and sandwich supper, to which the young people, at any rate, gave the preference.

Now the excuse for the little party, some particulars of which I am about to relate, was found in the circumstance of a certain Miss Hardy spending a few days in Dilton. She might, indeed, be called a client of Mr. Jenkins's, although he had never seen, and scarcely heard

of her until within these few days. He was connected with some business in which she had recently acquired an interest from inheriting a very considerable property. If, however, we listen to a discourse which took place between Mr. and Mrs. Septimus, the day of the party, we shall better understand the motive-wheels which were at work.

"I should say eight-and-twenty, at least," exclaimed Mr. Septimus. The subject under discussion was evidently that delicate one, a lady's age.

"Well, perhaps she may be, or perhaps she only looks it. Consider what a wearing life hers must have been," continued the lady, especially latterly, confined almost entirely to her aunt's sick room. But she has a slight figure, and that takes off her age."

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"Yes, slight, but decidedly crooked," returned Mr. Jenkins, who seemed determined to depreciate the heiress.

"And what does that signify, if the young people should like one another? And I am sure she is amiable," added Mrs. Jenkins.

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Yes; and much too sensible to marry a boy. Pshaw! my dear, the idea is preposterous,"

"Well, at any rate, it was worth while to give Adolphus the opportunity. Besides, I really wanted to have a party."

"That is another affair," said Mr. Jenkins with a smile, and brushing his hat preparatory to leaving for his office. The lady now remembered a commission she wished him to execute, and which, amid her castle-building, she had well-nigh forgotten.

"You will pass the door of Twang and Tuchitts," she exclaimed; "just call in and ask them to send the people who are to play the harp and piano at eight o'clock instead of half-past. You know it is only a carpet dance, and that will not be too early."

Mr. Jenkins dropped the hat-brush, and in seeking to recover it, let fall his hat also. Stooping to pick them up was a means of hiding his confusion. Mr. Septimus Jenkins, who had been requested three several times to order the musicians and, on the last occasion, had been guilty of an evasion rather than acknowledge his negligence-had altogether forgotten the important trust confided to him. Hoping, however, that it was not too late to repair the omission, he made no confession of his fault, but saying "6 very well, very well," hurried out of the house. Be sure his first visit was to Messrs. Twang and Tuchitt's. Alas! alas! there must have been an epidemic of party-giving at Dilton; every member of the establishment was engaged that evening, down to a boy of twelve years old who played the accordion-an asthmatic accompaniment to the piano. Messrs Twang and Tuchitt published music, sold and let out instruments, provided players for parties, and, indeed, enjoyed a monopoly in the town; and faint was the hope with which Mr. Jenkins journied on in pursuit of a quadrille and polka-player. It was no use,

after wasting at least an hour-and-a-half, he was obliged to make a full confession of his omission to his wife. This he did by note, suggesting that Mrs. Septimus should invite the young lady who was daily governess to their children, and who, no doubt, would excuse the shortness of the invitation, and, being a good musician, would make herself useful at the piano. I should mention that he softened the "blow" of this note by sending in with it some choice flowers which had been for three days coveted by his wife, but, with a wonderful stretch of authority had been positively prohibited by him.

Conflicting were the emotions of Mrs. Septimus Jenkins on receiving that note. On one hand were the flowers which would make her an object of envy to Mrs. Myles and Mrs. Brownlow, who never could persuade their husband to do things with any elegance; and on the other, the disappointment of the musicians; but to be sure their absence might be explained, only at the expense of holding up her husband to playful censure. But then the inviting Lucy Drayton! It must be done, and with as good a grace as Mrs. Septimus could assume.

Like many another vain, ignorant, and worldly woman, Mrs. Septimus had hitherto treated her governess-to whom the hearts and minds of her children were intrusted-with rather unbecoming coldness and haughtiness.

At the moment the note was delivered, Lucy Drayton was in the little back parlour, called by courtesy "the study," busily engaged with her usual duties, imparting knowledge in homeopathic doses, the only method in which it is imbibed by children with a certainty of permanent benefit. The governess had been quite aware of the projected party, and, to do Mrs. Septimus justice, she felt a little awkwardness at the lateness of the invitation; accordingly she deputed her daughter to be mediator. Isabella Maria was a good-natured girl, full of life and spirits, with just sympathy enough for a girl of her own age so differently circumstanced from herself, to always take part in the wars which sometimes arose between her and juvenile rebels; and on the present occasion Miss Jenkins was elated at the prospect of a party and the adoration of her own particular beaux. By dint of sincere good feeling, she smoothed down the awkwardness of the invitation, though Lucy was quite aware of the purpose for which she was required.

Lucy Drayton was an orphan, who, to use a common phrase, had been tossed about the world since her childhood. Educated on the wreck of her father's means, she was now residing with a distant relative, who had made an advantageous bargain by giving her board and lodging in return for her services as instructress to her child. The remainder of Lucy's time was occupied by her duties at Mrs. Jenkins's. Early responsibility, and the habit and necessity of taxing her powers to the uttermost, had influenced her character, and in many respects developed it. With a naturally warm, affectionate, and grateful heart, she was reserved and almost cold in manner; perhaps because

her childish sensibility had been so often chilled or rebuked. But though sensitive, she had both good sense and decision; and though she certainly did not feel any great pleasure at receiving Mrs. Jenkin's tardy invitation, she felt that it was in fact a "command," which she could not with propriety disobey.

Lucy came early, and brought with her a thick roll of music. She wore a simple white dress, and, twined in her hair, a few sprays of jesamine, fresh and odorous, just gathered from her cousin's garden. Perhaps after all, to a pretty girl of nineteen, which Lucy undoubtedly was, this unpretending attire was the most be coming that could be chosen; and devoid as she was of all the petty affectations which sometimes beset very young ladies, to whom evening parties are frequent occurrences, there was absolutely something distinguished in her very simplicity.

Miss Hardy, the heiress, was also among the early arrivals; and though in every respect her appearance presented a decided contrast to that of Lucy, they were alike in their perfect freedom from mincing affectation. I am afraid I could not positively aver that any other lady in the room that evening, under thirty years of age, entirely refrained from "flirting" her fan, coquetting with her bouquet, draping her gossamer handkerchief, primming her face to a stereotyped smile, or displaying with careful carelessness the tablets that enumerated her partners. Miss | Hardy was in deep mourning for the aunt to whom she had been for years nurse and companion, and who had bequeathed her two thousand a-year. The high dress, fitting close to the throat, by no means concealed that one shoulder was decidedly awry, and not those who loved her best had ever considered her handsome; and yet there was a soul of goodness in the thoughtful face of Sarah Hardy, that made one feel how natural it might be for a gifted and a noble-minded man to find in her the nearest approach to his ideal.

But the old maid, as Mr. Adolphus called her, in nothing resembled his ideal. Mrs. Septimus very soon perceived that her bubble scheme had already burst. Still, though the daughter-inlaw had vanished, the rich client remained; and Miss Hardy was the chief object of attention to host and hostess throughout the evening. Visitors also took the cue, and the lady became quite the centre of attraction. She declined dancing, saying she "had not danced since her aunt's death;" but it is probable that at any time she preferred looking on. Meanwhile Lucy Drayton remained at the piano, playing dance after dance with ease and good humour. To quadrille succeeded polka, polka melted into waltz; and, after brief breathing pause, the waltzers again steadied into a quadrille; and so it went round and round, with little variation.

By-and-bye Miss Hardy changed her seat: her careful entertainers had feared a draught, and recommended an easy chair near the piano. She had now a full opportunity of perceiving that the indefatigable pianist was about as much

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neglected as she herself was féted. Miss Hardy understood all that was passing around her, just as well as Asmodeus when he unroofed the houses, or rather better, for she comprehended the inner springs of feeling which set outer wheels of action at work. Moreover, for long years she had been herself a neglected dependant, and she felt a sympathetic attraction towards the young governess, with whom, waiving the ceremony of an introduction, she began chatting in the intervals between the dances.

Again was Miss Hardy besought and entreated to dance, and Mrs. Septimus escorted a gentleman across the room, who requested he might have the honour."

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"Pray excuse me," repeated Miss Hardy, but without waiting for an answer, she continued, "I can, however, find you a substitute; I am sure the young lady who has been playing so charmingly all the evening is a dancer, and I shall be most happy to take her place."

"Allow me the pleasure," murmured the gentleman, bowing to Lucy, though he was a good deal disappointed at not having the opportunity he coveted of playing the agreeable to the heiress. Meanwhile, Miss Hardy had risen, drawn off her gloves, and taken the seat Lucy had vacated for a moment, before the latter quite realized what had happened. Mrs. Septimus expressed herself as quite "shocked" but while Lucy was blushing and hardly knowing what she ought to do, Miss Hardy struck a few preluding chords, just to ascertain the temper and power of the instrument beneath her touch, and then dashed into an extempore and brilliant polka. In an instant, every head was turned in one direction, even some sober whist-players, in the next drawing-room, looked round; Lucy's playing had been good, but that to which they now listened, revealed, at once, the apt pupil of Thalberg.

As for the dancers, they quite revelled in their enjoyment; and, perhaps, not one of them more than Lucy. She was an exquisite dancernot the dancer of the stage, but of the private ball-room; her lithe figure moved with as much grace as a flower stem swayed by the breeze, and her little black satin slippers seemed to touch the ground only with the lightness of a feather. Her partner speedily grew contented with his lot; and Mr. Adolphus dared the frowns of his lady mother, by asking the hand of the governess for the next " Schottische."

Like all fine pianists, Miss Hardy played with the utmost apparent ease, looking at, and watching the dancers instead of her fingers; her face lighted up, too, with a kindly expression, for it was to her a real gratification to give pleasure to others.

Poor Mrs. Septimus! her usual affectations were almost absorbed in the real earnest anger and vexation which were consuming her. The great lady of the party seated at the piano, playing like a hired performer, and not to be turned from her resolve by any persuasions! Supper was only a reprieve; for though Miss Hardy's carriage was already waiting, Mrs.

Franklin, her chaperon, whose wishes she gene- | of "envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitable

rally consulted, was quite willing to stay; both were of opinion the horses could not suffer on a warm summer night, and she knew that her servants were customarily too well treated to make hardship of a little extra duty. And so Miss Hardy played on, refusing the offers to play which now were made by several young ladies; tiring out the dancers, till the ringlets of Isabella Maria were quite out of curl, and her especial beaux dropped off one by one.

Mrs. Jenkins knew not where to make her attack on Lucy; and yet she was very angry with her. Angry with her for looking well, and dancing well, and for being admired, and for Miss Hardy taking a fancy to her, which was very evidently the case; for, to crown the contrarieties of the evening, the heiress volunteered to take home the young governess, insisting that it would not be a street's length out of her way.

Lucy Drayton felt very happy, she hardly knew why; but the truth was, her heart was opening to a sympathizing kindness with which she had rarely met. As they rode homewards they talked a good deal of music, and Miss Hardy said:

"Mrs. Franklin and I are going to a concert at the Town Hall, to-morrow; if you have no engagement, I have a ticket to spare, and shall be most happy to take you."

There can be no doubt of Lucy's answer; and though a little pale and tired from keeping unwonted late hours, followed by a toiling day, the concert was, nevertheless, about the most delightful treat she had ever enjoyed. She loved music, and Miss Hardy soon perceived that her taste was remarkably correct, considering how little, by comparison with her own, it had been cultivated. Miss Hardy grew more and more interested in her young friend, and a desire to be of service sprang up in her heart, yet, at present, taking but a vague indistinct shape. When again they parted, their hands instinctively lingered together, and when Lucy stepped out of the carriage at her cousin's door, Miss Hardy said:

"If you can find time, pray come and see me in a day or two. I shall not leave Dilton for another week."

Poor Lucy, her heart was full of grateful emotions; for she must have been dull indeed not to have been conscious of the kindly interest she had awakened. As if to deepen her feelings, and yet present a contrast, she was a little scolded by her relatives for being 'late,' and a passing allusion was made to her having kept a servant up the night before. An event, however, which seemed to Lucy something more serious than her cousin's rebuke, occurred the next morning.

"Affectation" is often thought a harmless foible; it may be sometimes only the proof of a weak head, yet I am much mistaken if, being, as it more often is, the sign of a certain falseness of character, it is not generally accompanied by a selfish nature, which brings its vicious train

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ness. Mrs. Septimus Jenkins, the spoilt child of fortune, with no sympathies beyond a mere animal affection for her children; unused to the thwarting of her projects; irritated that her daughter had in her own house been eclipsed by a "nobody," which "nobody" had evidently inspired a warm friendship in the chief somebody" of her acquaintances; and angry with her husband, whose forgetfulness had been the original cause of these disasters, vented the accumulation of her wrath on poor Lucy's head. A pretext was easily found. Though but a week before she had condescended to praise the skill with which Lucy had brought on Evelina in her music,' she now discovered that Georgiana Victoria played, if possible, worse than she did a month ago. Lucy gently remonstrated that the little girl was not yet eight years old, that she had learned but six months, that it was difficult at present to measure her progress, that she had been studying exercises diligently, and that, moreover, it was right to allow that the child had never evinced the least ear for music. When Lucy Drayton meekly suggested all this, she was rebuked for impertinence, and, to shorten a disagreeable scene, summarily dismissed.

Stung with the insults, which yet seemed to have aroused her pride and dried up her tears, she hastened "home;" but here, instead of sympathy, rebuke awaited her! for Lucy's cousin was one of that shallow class who always think the unfortunate must be in error.

It was indeed with a crushed heart and drooping spirits that the poor girl paid her promised visit to her new friend. But there was something about Sarah Hardy that always won confidence; old and young always told her their troubles, and her heart was quite a depository for secrets. Not that Lucy had any secret, properly so-called, to tell; but before she had been seated five minutes on the sofa beside Miss Hardy, she found her hand warmly clasped, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and herself relating all her griefs, though with more eloquence than she was aware-the eloquence of feeling and sincerity. Instead, however, of Miss Hardy echoing her regrets, as, from the frequent pressure of her hand Lucy had expected, her first exclamation was "Delightful!"' Lucy looked up, amazed."

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'Yes, delightful!" continued Miss Hardy; "for now I see no obstacle to a scheme that bristled with difficulties and improprieties a quarter of an hour ago. My dear child! dry your eyes, and listen while I tell you a secret." Lucy smiled through her tears, and tried to obey.

"You see," continued Miss Hardy, with an air of frankness that defied contradiction, "that I am neither young nor pretty, and three months ago, my dear girl, I was as poor and dependent as yourself, and yet for five long years I have been as truly loved as woman with all her exigence can desire. Loved by one who, once penniless as myself, has been devoting

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