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menarehs; while to the north, the splendid gilded tomb, and richly ornamented towers of the Kazimein, glittered in the setting sun.

This is a holy place on the banks of the Tigris, sacred to a leader of the Shiite, or Persian Mohammedans. It is a place of refuge, and hence inhabited by the princes who some years back visited this country; and it is also a site where the bodies of Persians, who are conveyed to their burial at Mesjid Ali, beyond the Euphrates, tarry for a day, to derive additional sanctity from such a post-mortem pilgrimage—posthumous it is not. These pilgrimages present to the stranger, who happens to meet one, a not very inviting spectacle. They generally consist of from five hundred to one thousand mules, each carrying two dead bodies, and seldom attended by any, save the hired muleteer; at times, however, a forlorn widower or childless mother is to be seen, wrapped in a long dark dress, following the mournful convoy on foot, and persevering, amid dust, heat, and thirst, in traversing the desert tracts that lie between the frontiers of Persia and the tomb of Ali, in Arabia. The coffins are often carelessly made—sometimes a few planks hastily thrown together—the bodies scarcely embalmed, and collected at a distance, and at long intervals from one another; both often break upon so long a journey; and it is, therefore, needless to remark, that these caravans of the dead are followed by hosts of jackals and vultures, and still greater myriads of wasps and carnivorous flies.

Sleep on the mound, on which we were perched, was put out of the question by myriads of mosquitoes, besides that we were otherwise engaged; for some Arabs, whom we had sent early in the evening in search of provisions, did not return till midnight, when their bread cakes and sour milk, notwithstanding the sleepy hour, received every attention. The sun rose, and we were obliged to remain exposed to its scorching beams, till past the meridian; it was three P.M. before the welcome boat came to our delivery. The wind was in our favour; but having but a sorry square sail, it took us three hours to cross the lake. At times the Arab crew assisted by pulling a little, on which occasions they added the stimulus of song, shouts, and yells, the former consisted of a few simple stanzas:—

A welcome was also sung in grand chorus, to our interpreter, Sayid Ali, who had married a native of Baghdad; the words were pretty nearly—

We landed at sunset, by the tomb of Zobeida, the beautiful wife of Harun Al Rashid, whose name is as familiar in London as in Baghdad. The monument erected to her memory is an exquisite specimen of Saracenic architecture, but is more beautiful in its interior and skilful in its details than it is striking in appearance. Passing through