has been mouldering for four thousand years in its sepulchre, to the loveliest specimens of living and animated beauty. The uniformed natives of these countries, whose condition is much to be deplored, are not aware that the great Samuel Johnson has said, that "Whatever raises the past, the distant, and the future, above the present, exalts us in the dignity of human beings;" which is an unanswerably good reason for the preference given to mummies over every living object, however fascinating. The rage of the present day for mummies and other delectable reliques of antiquity has deluged Egypt with itinerant men of science and research, who have quite exhausted that land of wonders; and those who have lately visited it have been reduced, from actual want of other aliment, to the necessity of preying upon their predecessors, many of whom have been cruelly mangled, and some wholly devoured. These wandering tribes of writers, who are, in a certain degree, subject to the same motives which force the hordes of Tartary to change their places of abode, have recently begun to migrate into Syria, Asia Minor, and some have actually penetrated as far as Persia. This has given me no small alarm, for I have long had designs upon that country myself: I had seen something of it, and had indulged a hope that I might, at my leisure, gratify the public by allowing them to participate in my stock of information; but being of an indolent disposition, I deferred the execution of this, my favourite plan, until that anticipated period of repose, the prospect of which, however distant, has always cheered a life of vicissitude and labour. Nothing that had hitherto appeared respecting Persia at all frightened me. I am no historian, therefore I did not tremble at Sir John Malcolm's ponderous quartos; I am no tourist, Mr. Morier's Journeys gave me no uneasiness; the learned Researches of Sir William Ouseley were enough to terrify an antiquarian, but that was not my trade; and, as I happen to have clumsy, untaught fingers, and little if any taste for the picturesque, I viewed without alarm the splendid volumes of Sir Robert Ker Porter. Far different, however, was the case when that rogue Hajji Bâbâ made his appearance. I perused him with anxiety, but was consoled by finding that, though he approached the very borders of my province, he had made no serious inroads. I was roused, however, into action, and determined instantly to rummage those trunks into which my sketches had been thrown as they were finished, and where many of them had slumbered undisturbed for nearly thirty years.