I looked at the man again, and in features
where I had been fully disposed to find the
traces of cunning and duplicity, could discover
nothing, to my disappointment, but
manly frankness, allied with almost child-like
simplicity.

He was a fine, handsome fellow, some thirty
years of age, with large almond-shaped eyes,
straight nose, well-curved lips, and magnificent
black beard. A carefully twisted white
turban— the noblest head-dress ever invented
—a grey embroidered jacket, a light-fitting
waistcoat buttoned up to the throat, a red
shawl round the loins, loose white trousers,
and red slippers, formed his costume. After
exchanging a few general compliments, he
sat down on a heap of cloth, to wait till the
master of the shop was disengaged, and
accepted a whiff or two from my shisheh. It
was evident at once, from his whole manner,
that he was a grave, serious, solid old man;
and it was as much, perhaps, on this account,
as because of his handsome person, that one
of the ladies I have mentioned began to jest
with and tease him. At the first word he
actually blushed, and became uneasy, replied
at first timidly, and then sulkily; and when
the fair jester went so far as to lay her small
henna-dyed fingers upon the glossy curls of
his beard, he could hold out no longer, but
abruptly rose and went away. Tagger Hanna
was very indignant at this; and as the bargain
was concluded, the merchandise cut and
packed up, and the money in his hand— nothing
remaining to go through but an altercation
about five or ten paras of change— he took the
liberty, in excellent Arabic, which we cannot
afford to translate literally, of telling the
offended lady that she was no better than she
should be, to which, in delightful vernacular,
she responded, that he was no better than he
should be; and the sisters, cousins, aunts, and
friends, who had coalesced to idle away a day
in spending three shillings, taking up the cry
with a vengeance, one old dame seeming
disposed to become more practical than pleasant,
my worthy friend was compelled to have
recourse to his iron measure, with which he
threatened to dig out the hearts of all who
did not immediately abscond.

The shop being cleared by these means,
and the mutterings of the female tempest
having died away in the distance, I made some
inquiries about the Maghrebi. He was a
merchant at Derna, who every year in the
spring came to Alexandria, either by land
or water, to make purchases. It was now
autumn, so that his arrival had been delayed
for some reason, at least four months. Tagger
Hanna professed to be certain that his
customer was lurking about the neighbourhood
waiting for the departure of the women;
but I could divine from his restlessness that
he was not without anxiety on the subject.
At length, however, his prediction turned out
to be correct; for Hagg Mustafa appeared on
the other side of the street, casting sidelong
glances in our direction. When he had ascertained
that the coast was indeed clear, he
crossed over and came in to us, and having
murmured two or three sage aphorisms on
the impudence of women, proceeded to
business.

He bought a good quantity of Syrian and
Egyptian silk manufactures, and a parcel of
English prints, which one would have thought
he could have procured cheaper direct from
Malta. Hanna, it seemed to me, was a little
unreasonable in his charges; but the worthy
Maghrebi did not bargain, simply refusing to
take what appeared to him too dear. Accustomed
as I was to witness the furious discussions
that usually take place in an Arab
shop, the lying on both sides, the taking of
sacred names in vain, the indignant protestations
of the dealer that he is selling under
cost price and does not deserve to be beaten
down, the solemn oaths of the purchaser that,
he has been offered a similar article for half
the money in the next street, the well-acted
quarrel, and the final adjustment, by which
both parties tacitly acknowledge themselves
to be rogues— in contrast, I say, with these
daily occurring scenes, the way in which the
Maghrebi went to work quite charmed me,
and I waited with interest the conversation
over the parting pipe, in hopes that he would
reveal some particulars of his history.

My anticipations were more than fulfilled;
so that with the addition of a few facts subsequently
ascertained, I was enabled to
construct a little biography of this Man from
the West. The principal features are as
follows:— Hagg Mustafa belonged to a family
of merchants engaged, from time immemorial,
in supplying the eastern provinces of Tripoli
with the costly manufactures required for the
gaudy costume both of males and females.
From a very early age he had accompanied
his father in all his expeditions, and having
pushed on one occasion as far as Mecca, had
acquired the honourable title of Pilgrim. He
had now for many years carried on business
on his own account, and fortune having
smiled upon his industry, had amassed a
considerable amount of wealth. His life was one
of peril and adventure; for the Eastern
merchant of his class is not a sedentary personage.
He has no counting-house, no clerks,
no distant correspondents. He does all his
business himself, buying in one place,
accompanying his merchandise from country to
country, from market to market, and selling
as much as possible without the assistance of
brokers or agents of any kind. He is, in fact,
a pedlar on a large scale.

About two years before the period of which
I speak, Mustafa, on his return from his
annual voyage to Egypt, heard a crier
proclaiming in the market-place of Derna a
beautiful slave for sale. Her qualities were
past all enumeration; and her name was
Sagara-en-Noor, or The Tree of Light. Now,
Mustafa had, until then, lived a single life,