They then hastened out of the caverns, and, under the protection of their guard, returned to Cairo.

CHAP.  XLIX.

THIS CONCLUSION, IN WHICH NOTHING IS CONCLUDED.

It was now the time of the inundation of the Nile:  a few days after their visit to the catacombs the river began to rise.

They were confined to their house.  The whole region, being under water, gave them no invitation to any excursions, and, being well supplied with materials for talk, they diverted themselves with comparisons of the different forms of life, which they had observed, and with various schemes of happiness, which each of them had formed.

Pekuah was never so much charmed with any place as the convent of St. Anthony, where the Arab restored her to the princess, and wished only to fill it with pious maidens, and to be made prioress of the order:  she was weary of expectation and disgust, and would gladly be fixed in some unvariable state.

The princess thought, that, of all sublunary things, knowledge was the best:  she desired, first, to learn all sciences, and then purposed to found a college of learned women, in which she would preside; that, by conversing with the old, and educating the young, she might divide her time between the acquisition and communication of wisdom, and raise up, fur the next age, models of prudence, and patterns of piety.

The prince desired a little kingdom, in which he might administer justice in his own person, and see all the parts of government with his own eyes; but he could never fix the limits of his dominion, and was always adding to the number of his subjects.

Imlac and the astronomer were contented to be driven along the stream of life, without directing their course to any particular port.  Of these wishes, that they had formed, they well knew that none could be obtained.  They deliberated awhile what was to be done, and resolved, when the inundation should cease, to return to Abissinia.

LETTERS.

I.—­To MR. JAMES ELPHINSTON.

Sept. 25th, 1750.

DEAR SIR,—­You have, as I find by every kind of evidence, lost an excellent mother; and I hope you will not think me incapable of partaking of your grief.  I have a mother, now eighty-two years of age, whom, therefore, I must soon lose, unless it please God that she rather should mourn for me.  I read the letters in which you relate your mother’s death to Mrs. Strahan, and think I do myself honour, when I tell you that I read them with tears; but tears are neither to you, nor to me, of any farther use, when once the tribute of nature has been paid.  The business of life summons us away from useless grief, and calls us to the exercise of those virtues, of which we are lamenting our deprivation.