The Sultan Had Made A Demand Upon Him For Sixteen Thousand Purses, 80,000l. - Mustapha Retired - The Sultan Pounced Down Upon His House, And His Goods, His Horses And His Mules.

His harem was desolate.

Mr. Milnes could have written six affecting poems, had he been with us, on the dark loneliness of that violated sanctuary. We passed from hall to hall, terrace to terrace - a few fellows were slumbering on the naked floors, and scarce turned as we went by them. We entered Mustapha's particular divan - there was the raised floor, but no bearded friends squatting away the night of Ramazan; there was the little coffee furnace, but where was the slave and the coffee and the glowing embers of the pipes? Mustapha's favourite passages from the Koran were still painted up on the walls, but nobody was the wiser for them. We walked over a sleeping negro, and opened the windows which looked into his gardens. The horses and donkeys, the camels and mules were picketed there below, but where is the said Mustapha? From the frying-pan of the Porte, has he not fallen into the fire of Mehemet Ali? And which is best, to broil or to fry? If it be but to read the "Arabian Nights" again on getting home, it is good to have made this little voyage and seen these strange places and faces.

Then we went out through the arched lowering gateway of the town into the plain beyond, and that was another famous and brilliant scene of the "Arabian Nights." The heaven shone with a marvellous brilliancy - the plain disappeared far in the haze - the towers and battlements of the town rose black against the sky - old outlandish trees rose up here and there - clumps of camels were couched in the rare herbage - dogs were baying about - groups of men lay sleeping under their haicks round about - round about the tall gates many lights were twinkling - and they brought us water-pipes and sherbet- -and we wondered to think that London was only three weeks off.

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