18 JOURNEY TO CENTRAL AFRICA.

once, "Veneg, Monsieur/" "Take a ride, sir; here is a

good donkey ! " " Schomer Esel / " " Prendete il mio bur-

rico ! " — and you are made the vortex of a whirlpool of don-

keys. The one-eyed donkey-boys fight, the donkeys kick, and there is no rest till you have bestridden one of the little

beasts. The driver then gives his tail a twist and his rump a

thwack, and you are carried off in triumph. The animal is so

small that you seem the more silly of the two, when you have

mounted, but after he has carried you for an hour in a rapid

gallop, you recover your dignity in your respect for him.

The spotless blue of the sky and the delicious elasticity of

the air were truly intoxicating, as we galloped between gar-

dens of date-trees, laden with ripe fruit, to the city gate, and through it into a broad road, fringed with acacias, leading to

the Mahmoudieh canal. But to the south, on a rise of dry,

sandy soil, stood the Pillar of Diocletian — not of Pompey,

whose name it bears. It is a simple column, ninety-eight feet

in height, but the shaft is a single block of red granite, and

stands superbly against the back-ground of such a sky and such a sea. It is the only relic of the ancient Alexandria

worthy of its fame, but you could not wish for one more im-

posing and eloquent. The glowing white houses of the town,

the minarets, the palms and the acacias fill the landscape, but

it stands apart from them, in the sand, and looks only to the sea and the desert.

In the evening we took donkeys again and rode out of the town to a cafe on the banks of the canal. A sunset of burn-

ing rose and orange sank over the desert behind Pompey's Pillar, and the balmiest of breezes stole towards us from the

sea, through palm gardens. A Swiss gentleman, M. de Glon-