hours! We don't know this at first; we are
beguiled with delusive notions of ten minutes;
we are constantly going to set off; all who have
descended must get again into their seats, as we
shall start immediately. But we don't start, and
so at last I get out and have a conversation with
the engine-driver, who is an Englishman, and
who informs me, in the truest British vernacular,
"That we ain't a going, and we ain't likely to
go, these three hours, and its all along of the
condemned Pasha and his adjective army, which
isn't worth a condemnation, the whole biling of
them; and he knows where to put his hand on
ten Englishmen as could lick any condemned
thirty of 'em. There's only one line of rail on
this here condemned tramway, that's what he
calls it, for it ain't no better, and here's the
regular traffic shunted into a sidin' to let a pack
of condemned soldiers go by." All of which,
being interpreted, means that one of the Pasha's
regiments is being moved from Cairo to
Alexandria, and that, as there is only a single line of
rails, we are put aside until the military train
has passed. Three hours in this burning sun,
parched with thirst, without a chance of drinking
—for the water-filled goatskins are so repulsive
in look and smell, that I can't yet fly to them for
solace—with nothing to do, without books or
work or healthful play to pass the time, what
is a once-busy bee to do? I am growing
desperate, when the ever-constant bishop, sweltering
but smiling and cheerful even in these
adverse circumstances, comes to my aid. He
has learned that there is a fair going on in the
town, and he proposes that we should go and see
it. An Egyptian fair; by all means let us start
at once!

Passing out of the palisaded gate of the
railway station, round which is loitering a
crowd of sinister-looking, dirty ruffians, we
come first upon a suburb of mud hovels,
and then upon the little town itself: dull,
quiet, neat, and orderly, the houses of a better
class than I have seen, save at Alexandria. No
signs of a fair as yet, except a thin and broken
line of people advancing in one direction. We
follow them: the bishop, who has started a
red silk umbrella of portentous dimensions,
leading the way, I. following, somewhat
embarrassed with the stiff ends of my "puggery,"
which will get down my back, tilting my hat
over my eyes.

And now rises a distant humming, which
announces that we are approaching the scene of
festivity; and now, at distances of a hundred
yards between,, we find men seated on the ground,
with large baskets in front of them, containing
fruit for sale, and a curious saccharine stuff,
not unlike masticated toffee in its appear-
ance; this is rakatlikoum, a highly esteemed
Eastern sweetmeat; and there are dates, pulpy
figs, gourds, and a large yellow fruit, very like a
shaddock. Led, as usual, by the bishop, I,
and other of the passengers, purchase some
fruit, and, much refreshed, make our way to a
neighbouring spot, where a large crowd is
gathered in a ring round a horse-dealer. The

people push aside for us, right and left: not
coweringly, but apparently through their amazement
at seeing us there: and we find ourselves
in the centre of the circle, in company with
some half-dozen beautiful horses and as many
dirty Bedouins. Two of these are breeders,
the others buyers of the horseflesh. You know
all about the Bedouin's affection for his horse—
won't sell her—at last dying, starving, Pasha
offers him enormous sum, he comes to terms,
brings the animal, breaks out into a bellow
as the money is counted into his hand, jumps
on mare's back, rides off, and is never seen
again.—Nor, most probably, is the money,
though this is not said by the story-teller, nor
by Mrs. Norton, who has rendered the anecdote
into very sweet and touching verse.

But, the railroads and the march of intellect have
changed all this, and the only fear of the owner of
the " first lot," a white-bearded old man, with a
face which would be benevolent but for a sinister
expression of the eye, is lest he should not get
enough for it. The " lot," a splendid black
mare, very small, with the slenderest legs, the
shiniest coat, and altogether in perfect condi-
tion, stands stone-still while the four intend-
ing purchasers scan her closely. I have
attended sales at Mr. Tattersall's yard, but I
firmly believe that the Bedouin gentlemen, when
their scrutiny is ended, know more of the real
points of that mare than all the leg-rubbing, rib-
punching, and mouth-examining practised in
England would have told them. One of them
at last seemingly makes a bid, which the white-
bearded old man apparently promptly declines;
and then there arises amongst the whole crowd,
a shrill and discordant wrangling, in the midst
of which we push our way out and proceed
further on our researches. After passing two
or three more horse-vendors, we come to a
knot of people who are highly amused at the
antics of a mountebank: a slight, lithe, active
fellow, who is throwing summersaults and tying
himself into knots in true acrobat fashion. He
has a comical expression of face, and evidently
possesses a quick perception of the ludicrous,
for, observing our party, he assumes an appearance
of burlesque terror, running to each side of
the ring, and pretending to hide himself; then
he falls into convulsions of mock politeness,
bowing his head to the ground between his legs,
and finally, with a bit of turban cloth and a
short stick, he improvises such an excellent
imitation of the bishop's umbrella, and makes
such pointed pantomimical allusion to the portliness
of the bishop's person, that we are feign
to beat a retreat, amid the laughter of the
crowd. The mirth we leave behind us is,
however, nothing to that towards which we are
progressing, for just in front of us is the largest
and densest circle we have yet come upon, each
individual member of which seems mad with
delight. Some of those forming the outer ring
are actually rolling on the ground and kicking
in their joy; others are jumping up and clapping
their hands; all are screaming and yelling with
laughter. No moving back here to let us pass,