estate on which the Stone stands, and,
consequently, of the Stone itself. That gentleman
declares, "I have no hesitation in stating that
I do not believe you had any intention of
injuring any one, and that you were not aware
you should do so by upsetting the Logan
Rock. From the moment you had reason to
know the sensation produced by it, I can
safely say that you have said and done every
thing in your power to make amends."

Lieutenant Goldsmith at once set to work
to restore the Rocking Stone to its place; not
by order of the Admiralty, but of his own
accord. Tackle and men were freely furnished
him from the dockyard. A graphic account
of the feat appeared in the Royal Cornwall
Gazette of the 6th of November, 1824: –

"The Logan Rock is in its place, and 'logs'
again. Lieutenant Goldsmith has nobly repaired
the error of a moment by a long trial of skill, and
energy, and courage. I say courage, for it was
a work of great peril; and wherever danger was,
there he was always foremost – under the weight of
the mass of machinery, and on the edge of the
precipice. An engraving, which will shortly be
published, will convey the best idea of the complicated
machinery employed; and I shall content myself
with barely observing, as a proof of the skill of the
mode of applying it, that many Engineers had their
doubts whether it could be so applied, and even
when erected, they doubted whether it would be
efficient.

The moment, therefore (on Friday last), when
the men took their stations at the capstans was
an anxious one, and when, after twenty minutes
toil, Lieutenant Goldsmith announced from the
stage, 'It moves, thank God!' a shout of applause
burst from all who beheld it. Endeavour to
conceive a group of rocks of the most grand and
romantic appearance, forming an amphitheatre, with
multitudes seated on its irregular masses, or clinging
to its precipices: conceive a large platform carried
across an abyss from rock to rock, and upon it three
capstans manned by British seamen. Imagine the
lofty masts which are seen rearing their heads, from
which ropes are connected with chains in many a
fold, and of massive strength. A flag waves overall:
the huge stone is in the midst. Every eye is directed
to the monstrous bulk. Will it break its chains? –
will it fall and spread ruin? – or will it defy the
power that attempts to stir it? – will all the skill and
energy, and strength, and hardihood, have been
exerted in vain? We shall soon know: expectation
sits breathless; and at last it moves. All's well.
Such was the first half-hour. In two hours it was
suspended in the air, and vibrated: but art was
triumphant, and held the huge leviathan fast.

I will not detail the labour of two successive
days: but come to the last moment. At twenty
minutes past four on Tuesday afternoon a signal
was given that the rock was in its place, and
that it logged again. This was announced by a
spectator: but where was Lieutenant Goldsmith?
why does not he announce it? He has called
his men around him: his own and their hats are
off: he is addressing them first, and calling upon
them to return thanks to God, through whose aid
alone the work had been done – a work of great
peril and hazard, and by His blessing without loss
of life or limb.

After this appropriate and solemn act, he called
upon them to join in the British sailor's testimony
of joy, three cheers; and then turned with all
his gallant men to receive the re-echoing cheers
of the assembled multitude. More detailed
accounts will be given; but this hasty sketch may
convey some idea of the scene. That Lieutenant
Goldsmith, whose character – like the rock – is
replaced on a firm basis, may have an
opportunity of exerting his great talents and brave spirit
in the service of his profession, is the sincere wish
of all this neighbourhood."

A DIP IN THE NILE.

A TRAVELLER who comes home with the
dust of Egypt on his shoes, and brings us
cheerful talk from the bedside of our very old
friend, the Nile, is always to be heard with
pleasure. Mr. Bayle St. John, who talks to
us agreeably of Father Nile, his landed
property, his towns and villages, and villagers,
through two volumes, entitled Village Life
in Egypt, has, therefore, our ears at his
disposal. We get into his book as we would
get into a convenient bathing-machine, and
roll down towards the famous river. Here
we are with our heads bent over its waters,
into which we are about to dip.

The water fills our ears and blinds our
eyes, in which, blind though we are, a
thousand lights are dancing. We sink while our
heads swim, and we have a vision at once
that we are true Egyptians, pious Moslems,
and that we are at Cairo, during the Festival
of the Prophet – a feast at which in the
newness of our orthodoxy we are more particularly
anxious to assist. The dancing lights before
our eyes become a gay illumination, torches,
lanterns flash to and fro, strings of lamps
glitter among trees, the trees of the Esbekiyeh,
the Hyde Park of Cairo.

The Esbekiyeh is a place of spacious
gardens, crossed by alleys, and surrounded
by a broad drive under acacias and
sycamores. It is an hour after sunset, and
we are walking, we think, on this ground
between two rows of tents, all pouring
streams of light out from within. We
walk up to the grand feature of the scene,
the Kayim, a row of four tall masts connected
by a great entanglement of rigging, and overhung
with lamps of many kinds, the offerings
of many people. By the light of this ship of
Vauxhall that glitters down on moving
turbans and tarbooshes, and irradiates the
crowd in which we are becoming wedged,
we see strange sights about us. Profane
jokes and pious ejaculations, all of the true
Egyptian Moslem cast, are gurgling, instead
of the Nile water, in our ears; the sights are
very phantom-like. The tents are occupied
by holy dervises, who are at work therein,
performing publicly for the religious edification
of themselves and their beholders. In a
small tent dimly lighted, two or three are
bounding frantically up and down, like India-