There is nothing so dry and disgusting on earth as travelling on paper. It is a sort of algebraic locomotion, full of false positions and most uninteresting abbreviations; and therefore, instead of posting on by the side of the Earl of Ashborough, we shall take the liberty of getting into the chaise with him, and while he leans back with his eyes half shut, will gently unbutton the two top buttons of his waistcoat, where the lapel folds over the black handkerchief, and, drawing it back, peep in through the window the old Roman wished for, and ascertain what is doing in his lordship's breast. There was once, in the days of Cheops, an Egyptian who had a remarkably fine poultry-yard, in which were all the fowls of all the feathers that Egypt ever saw. One day it so happened, that, walking by the side of the Nile, the Egyptian espied an egg, which he immediately took up, and putting in his breast he carried it home, and laid it carefully in the nest of a sitting hen. Twenty days after, on entering his poultry-yard, to his great surprise he found--nothing but feathers and a young crocodile, which instantly attacked him also. With great difficulty the Egyptian freed himself from the destroyer of his hens; and when he died, he directed, in his will, that, on the frontal bandage of his mummy, there should be written, both in the hieroglyphic and the vulgar character, "_Beware how you hatch a crocodile's egg in your poultry-yard!_" Cheops, when he heard it, laughed; but one day, when he was going to give way to his revenge, contrary to the best interests both of himself and his people--contrary to wisdom, and policy, and justice, and, good faith--he caught himself saying, "_Beware how you hatch a crocodile's egg in your poultry-yard_;" and ever after that, when he found a violent passion springing up in his breast, his instant address to his own heart was, "_Beware how you hatch a crocodile's egg in your poultry-yard!_"