Few there are who have not read of the glory of the southern heavens; rare is the traveller in the tropics who has not revelled in the splendid aspect of the great arch above when illumined by the shining of the moon. After a long hot march it may indeed happen that the traveller is far too weary and worn-out to be capable of appreciating the charm of any such beauties; in passive indifference, stretched upon his back, he turns a listless eye unconcerned upwards to the sky, till sleep overpowers him; and thus unconsciously he loses the highest of poetic ecstacies. Soon the heaven bedecks itself with countless numbers of fleecy clouds, which separate as flakes of melting ice, and stand apart: the deep black firmament fills up the intervals, and gives a richer lustre to the stars; then, circled by a rosy halo, rises the gentle moon, and casts her silver beams upon the latest straggler. Meanwhile, far in the lonely wood, there has arisen, as it were, the tumult of a market; the gossip of the chatterers is interrupted now and then by the authoritative word of command of some superior officer, while many a camp-fire is kindled and illuminates the distant scene. To protect himself against the chilly air of night, each separate bearer takes what pains he can, using what ashes he can get for his covering. Wreaths of smoke hover over the encampment, a sense of burning oppresses the eyes and makes sleep all but impossible, and thus the attention is ever and again arrested by the moving orbs in the heavens above. To the traveller it well might seem as if the curtain of a theatre had been raised, and revealed a picture of the infernal world where hundreds of black devils were roasting at as many flames. Such were my nightly experiences as often as I journeyed with a large number of bearers. [Sidenote: SHEREEFEE.]