Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle-dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dash'd o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seaman in the fo'ksal,
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors, pulling, hauling;
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shiver'd in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;

And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groan'd and
quiver'd,

And they knelt, and moan'd, and shiver'd,
As the plunging waters met them,
And splash'd and overset them;
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrow bones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.

And the Turkish people for'ard Were frighten'd and behorror'd; And, shrieking and bewildering, The mothers clutch'd their children; The men sung, Allah! Illah! Mashallah and Bismillah!'

Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jump'd up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moan'd and jabber'd in
His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
A howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;

And they crawl'd from bales and benches
In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the White Squall famous, Which then and there o'ercame us, But we look'd at Captain Lewis, Who calmly stood and blew his Cigar in all the bustle,

And scorn'd the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought hereafter,
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;

And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And, as the sunrise splendid

Came blushing o'er the sea,
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling then and making
A prayer at home for me."

In the simple and tender pathos of the concluding lines outspoke the true heart of the man. Of him may be rightly predicated, as of Archdeacon Paley by his biographer, that

"An enemy to all kinds of moroseness or austerity in every relation of life, either as a father, a husband, or a friend, he was as remarkable for a generous warmth of feeling, as for a liveliness of disposition. It was one of his apophthegms that a man who is not sometimes a fool, is always one. This reminds us of Rochefoucault's maxim, that gravity is a mysterious carriage of the body, invented to cover the defects of the mind. The grave man may, therefore, choose the description of his character from the English or from the French philosopher. Paley accuses him of stupidity, Rochefoucault of knavery. Paley was never grave, but on grave occasions; in company his vivacity exhilarated all around him."-See Life of Paley prefixed to the Hora Paulinæ.

If ever there was a grave occasion, it would be that of a visit to the Holy Land and we do solemnly declare that the impression which these pages have made on us concerning Jerusalem and its awful memories, is one of the finest triumphs of heartfelt eloquence we can recall. Other travellers seem somehow to be playing a part this writer is terribly in earnest. We say no more.

Yet have the people about this hallowed spot confessedly done all in their poor power to degrade and bring down the tone of the pilgrim's feelings to the level of their own; and what that level is (ahi me!), must it be told in Gath?

"Jarred and distracted by these strange rites and ceremonies, that almost confessed imposture, the Church of the Holy

Sepulchre, for some time, seems to an Englishman the least sacred spot about Jerusalem. The lies, and the legends, and the priests, and their quarrels, and their ceremonies, keep the Holy Place out of sight. A man has not leisure to view it, for the brawling of the guardians of the spot. The Roman conquerors, they say, raised up a statue of Venus in this sacred place, intending to destroy all memory of it. I don't think the heathen was as criminal as the Christian is now. To deny and disbelieve, is not so bad as to make belief a ground to cheat upon. The liar Ananias perished for that; and yet out of these gates, where angels may have kept watch out of the tomb of Christ Christian priests issue with a lie in their mouths. What a place to choose for imposture, good God! to sully, with brutal struggles for selfaggrandisement or shameful schemes of gain!

"The situation of the Tomb (into which, be it authentic or not, no man can enter without a shock of breathless fear, and deep and awful self-humiliation) must have struck all travellers. It stands in the centre of the arched rotunda, which is common to all denominations, and from which branch off the various chapels belonging to each particular sect. In the Coptic chapel I saw one coal-black Copt, in his blue robes, cowering in the little cabin, surrounded by dingy lamps, barbarous pictures, and cheap, faded trumpery. In the Latin church there was no service going on, only two fathers dusting the mouldy gew-gaws along the brown walls, and laughing to one another. The gorgeous church of the Fire-impostors, hard by, was always more fully attended; as was that of their wealthy neighbours, the Armenians. These three main sects hate each other: their quarrels are intermin able each bribes and intrigues with the heathen lords of the soil, to the prejudice of his neighbour. Now it is the Latins who interfere, and allow the common church to go to ruin, because the Greeks purpose to roof it: now the Greeks demolish a monastery on Mount Olivet, and leave the ground to the Turks, rather than allow the Armenians to possess it. On another occasion, the Greeks having mended the Armenian steps, which led to the (so called) Cave of the Nativity at Bethlehem, the latter asked for per mission to destroy the work of the Greeks, and did so. And so round this sacred spot, the centre of Christendom, the representatives of the three great sects worship under one roof, and hate each other!"

Wherever

in their convent of St. James. we have been, these Eastern Quakers look grave, and jolly, and sleek. Their convent at Mount Zion is big enough to contain two or three thousand of their faithful; and their church is ornamented by the most rich and hideous gifts ever devised by uncouth piety. Instead of a bell, the fat monks of the convent beat huge noises on a board, and drub the faithful into prayers. I never saw men more lazy and rosy than these reverend fathers, kneeling in their comfortable matted church, or sitting in easy devotion. Pictures, images, gilding, tinsel, waxcandles, twinkle all over the place; and ten thousand ostriches' eggs (or any lesser number you may allot) dangle from the vaulted ceiling. There were great numbers of people at worship in this gorgeous church; they went on their knees, kissing the walls with much fervour, and paying reverence to the most precious relic of the convent- the chair of St. James, their patron, the first bishop of Jeru salem.

"The chair pointed out with greatest pride in the church of the Latin Convent, is that shabby red damask one appropriated to the French consul, the representative of the king of that nation, and the protection which it has from time immemorial accorded to the Christians of the Latin rite in Syria. All French writers and travellers speak of this protection with delightful complacency. Consult the French books of travel on the subject, and any Frenchman whom you may meet; he says, La France, monsieur, de tous les temps protége les Chrétiens d'Orient;' and the little fellow looks round the church with a sweep of the arm, and protects it accordingly."

Shall we go with him down into Egypt? There, indeed, is he great. The forty centuries that have been officially gazetted as squatting on the Pyramids, on the look-out for eventualities, never beheld a droller visitant. Does the reader remember how Gulliver lost his awe of the tremendous Brobdignag ladies? . . . Then, how touching his apology for not, on so grand a topic, coming up to the expected mark of fine writing!—

"Be that work for great geniuses, great painters, great poets! This quill was never made to take such flights; it comes of the wing of a humble domestic bird, who walks a common; who talks a great deal (and hisses sometimes); who can't fly far or high, and drops always very quickly; and whose unromantic end is, to be laid on a Michaelmas or

Christmas table, and there to be discussed for half-an-hour-let us hope, with some relish."

One remark of his, en passant, we notice, as it may guide the geologist to whom, in some remote age of futurity, will fall the task of elucidating Egyptian strata from the occurring debris,

"We don't know the luxury of thirst in English climes. Sedentary men in cities, at least, have seldom ascertained it; but, when they travel, our countrymen guard against it well. The road between Cairo and Suez is jonché with soda-water corks. Tom Thumb and his brothers might track their way across the desert by those land-marks."

To the artist world of London the most interesting of his Egyptian rencontres will, probably, be his abocca. mento with a well-known brother craftsman, an aquarellist of distinguished genius, whose strange fancy it is to lie perdu in the unintellectual wilderness of Cairo. Here he appears to have found out the grand arcanum of human happiness, leading the dreamy, lazy, hazy, tobaccofied life of the languid lotus-eater. In not unattractive colours does his London visitor depicture the dwelling-place of the self-exiled anchorite; there is a sort of fascination at work on him under the roof-tree of this gifted recluse; he is almost persuaded to remain. The public, who by this time justly look on him as their property, little knew what risk they ran. He sat for his portrait to this mysterious hermit: it will be found at a charming page of the book; it will be valued by numerous admirers of the artist, as well as of the subject ; prized with all the jealous care of Othello for the kerchief he got of an Egyptian woman.

We were about closing the volume with a general expression of admiration and approval of its varied beauties, and of that wondrous versatility (true test of genius) with which the author leads us through the mazy paths of philosophy, pleasantry, and pathos, equally entertaining in all, when the following patriotic reflections caught our eye concerning "Cleopatra's needle," the property of the British public, and which the unaccountable nonchalance

of government allows to remain in a most unseemly state. Who is to blame here? Is it the Board of Trade, or the Woods and Forests? We pause for a reply.

"Then we went to see the famous obelisk presented to the British govern. ment by Mehemet Ali, who have not shewn a particular alacrity to accept this ponderous present. The huge shaft lies on the ground prostrate, and desecrated by all sorts of abominations. Children were sprawling about, attracted by the dirt there. Arabs, negroes, and donkeyboys, were passing, quite indifferent, by the fallen monster of a stone,-as indifferent as the British government, who don't care for recording the glorious termination of their Egyptian campaign of 1801. If our country takes the compliment so coolly, surely it would be disloyal upon our parts to be so enthusiastic. I wish they would offer the Trafalgar Square Pillar to the Egyptians; and that both of the huge, ugly monsters were lying in the dirt there, side by side."

England appears, from her apparent bewilderment about the matter, to be in the position of the elderly lady who won an elephant in a lottery.

Ten years ago there was spread a rumour that some wealthy touristLord Prudhoe or Col. Vyse-had ordered the shipment of this monument at his private expense, with a view to its erection at the bottom of Regent Street. The invoice was said to be in town. The shareholders of Waterloo Bridge were on the alert, and a meeting was called to petition Lord Melbourne that it might be placed on the centre arch of that hitherto unprofitable structure. It was soon ascertained, however, that the project was premature; the whole affair having originated (we were present) in a hoax of Charles Philipps on the late Tom Hill, who went, hot fool, with the story to Dr. Black of the Chronicle. The paragraph, however, duly "went the rounds" not only of our provincial but of the continental press. As, at that period, we happened to be in frequent communication with J. P. Béranger, with whom Fraser's Magazine has ever since been a favourite, we were both surprised and flattered to receive from him some complimentary verses thereupon, which our modesty engaged us to suppress at the time, but