On the 4th of October, 1817, Burckhardt, who had so long waited in vain for an opportunity of penetrating with a Moggrebin caravan into Africa, was attacked with violent dysentery. The best medical advice which an eminent English physician (Doctor Richardson), then at Cairo, could afford was found unavailing. The disease prevailed, and on the 15th of the same month our able, adventurous, and lamented traveller breathed his last. As he had lived while in the East as a Mussulman, the Turks, he foresaw, would claim his body, “and perhaps,” said he to Mr. Salt, who was present at his death-bed, “you had better let them.”--“The funeral, as he desired,” says this gentleman, “was Mohammedan, conducted with all proper regard to the respectable rank which he had held in the eyes of the natives.” This was honourable to his Cairo friends; and to those who are interested in the history of his manly career it is gratifying to discover how highly he was valued. I have closed the lives of few travellers with more regret. It would have given me extreme pleasure to have followed him through those undiscovered regions whither his ardent imagination so anxiously tended; and, instead of thus recording his untimely death, to have beheld him enjoying in the first capital of the world the reward of his courage and enterprise. That I cannot enter into all Mr. Burckhardt’s views, either of men or things, is no reason why I should not be sensible of his extraordinary merit. His character, upon the whole, admirably fitted him to be a great traveller. He was bold, patient, persevering, judicious. He penetrated with admirable tact into the designs of his enemies, and not only knew how to prevent them, but, what was more difficult, to turn them to the confusion of their inventors. Upon this very excellence, however, was based one of his principal defects; he interpreted men in too refined and systematical a manner, and often saw in their actions more contrivance than ever existed. He was too hasty, moreover, in believing evil of mankind, which, with too many other able speculators, he supposed to be the necessary consequence of a philosophical spirit. But he was a young man. His mind, had he lived, would unquestionably have purified itself from this stain, as truth, which he possessed the courage and the ability to search for with success, was his only object. The works which he has left behind him, exceedingly numerous considering his brief career, are an imperishable monument of his genius and enterprise, and, when the fate of the writer is reflected on, can never be read without a feeling of deep interest almost amounting to emotion. Fortunately for his fame, their publication has been superintended by editors every way qualified for the task, who, without in the least dissipating their originality, must in very many instances have infinitely improved their style and arrangement. A popular edition of the whole would at once be a benefit to the public and an additional