dusty mosque, as far as the bamboo scaffolding
with windows and doors stuck about it, in
imitation of a stately warehouse, and now we
are threading our less nimble way through
the choked-up, steaming mazes of the Turkish
bazaar.

Of all the places of public resort in Cairo,
excepting only the mosques, this bazaar is
the most especially Oriental, and strikingly
picturesque. Of great extent, it is divided
into many different departments, in each of
which goods and wares of a particular class
are exposed for sale. In one or two lanes of
shops there are only boots and slippers to be
seen. Further on, mats, pillows, and cushions
are the articles to be disposed of. In another
quarter, clothes of every description are
heaped up and stored in lofty piles. In
another, jewellery and ornaments in utmost
variety; further on, quaint copper and iron
vessels; and yet further still, are the shops
devoted to miscellaneous merchandise.

I know not which to admire most—the
curious style and fashion of the shops, the
strange variety of their contents, the
picturesque garb of the many dealers, or their
Oriental gravity and seeming indifference to
all worldly matters about them. There is a
bearded old gentleman seated in great dignity
on a soft ottoman, cross-legged, like a
European tailor. He is a noble-looking
merchant of fancy articles, tastefully clad in
ample robes, with a hookah of extensive
dimensions in his mouth. He is apparently
a compound of Timour the Tartar as
personated at Astley's, and the solemn Turkish
gentleman seated for a number of years
in the front window of the Cigar Divan in
the Strand. It is impossible not to feel a
deep interest in this stately dealer in
miscellanies. His shop is at the corner of a
passage leading to the bazaar of eatables; and
not one of the many counters in the vicinity
can boast of such a showy assemblage of
wares as are here stored up in gay
profusion.

Slipping from my saddle, and flinging the
reins to the young Egyptian urchin who has
charge of my donkey, I make my way to the
solemn Turk, and, salaaming to him in such a
way as my knowledge of the East enables me,
I proceed to examine and admire his
merchandise. An Oriental, whether in Egypt or
Bengal, will never allow himself to be
surprised at anything, nor to evince any of the
most ordinary emotion. Accordingly, I do
not look for any outward and visible signs of
pleasure, or even of attention, from the
cushioned, turbaned Mahometan. If he is
looking at me at all—and I feel extremely
doubtful on the point—it must be my shoes
that are occupying his attention; for his
eyes are bent most provokingly downward,
calmly and immoveably. I roam over his
long array of articles, from the richer silk
purses of Persia, and the embroidered slippers
from Morocco, to the fine steel-work of
Damascus, glistening in the sunlight like Elkington's
best electro-plated wares. I nod my
head and smile in approval of the goods; and,
as a reward for my Frankish friendliness,
the Turk lifts up his deep dark eyes, mutters
something in soft Arabic, and motions gracefully
to an attendant in the rear.

In a moment a tiny cup of smoking black
coffee is handed to me on a rich salver. I
am too well versed in Oriental customs to
decline the civility; besides which, I am
anxious to ascertain if Mocha coffee so near
the place of its production, is the delicious
beverage it is said to be. Rumour has in
this instance been a faithful chronicler; the
coffee is of exquisite flavour, though I confess
my degenerate tastes desire a taste of milk
with it.

Pleased with my ready acceptance of his
coffee, and flattered by my signs of approval,
he hands me a richly-jewelled snuff-box, of
which I also avail myself, though detesting
snuff, and go.off forthwith into a paroxysm
of sneezes. Lastly, the mouth of his own
particular hookah is handed to me. I am
not usually a smoker of tobacco; yet, so
fragrant and so delicately flavoured, is this
famed Turkish herb, that the fumes tempt
me to some whiffs of wonderful vigour and
length.

I wish to depart, and look around me for
some memento of the time and place. A
purse, worked in silver lace on a rich silk
velvet ground, takes my attention. Whilst
selecting this, my new acquaintance brings
forward, wrapped in many careful folds of
soft cloth, a box of curious workmanship
and rarer materials. Gold and silver, ivory,
pearls and precious stones combine in its
construction, and almost dazzle the eye with
their brilliancy. It is a gem worthy the
acceptance of princes. The world-famed
Koh-i-noor might condescend to repose within
its sparkling embrace. Cleopatra might have
kept her love-letters in it. Alexander the
Great could have condescended to call it his.
The cost of it, I am assured, through an
interpreter is a mere trifle for an English
emir to give; only a few hundreds of pounds
sterling. But, as I have a tolerably vivid idea
that my spare hundreds will flow in a more
westerly and practical direction, I descend to
the purchase of an African purse, much to
the disappointment of the Turkish merchant;
who, however, does not condescend to evince
the slightest emotion, even of contempt. I
pocket my purse, and depart laden with the
ordinary stereotyped "Bismillahs," "In the
name of the Prophet," &c., losing myself for
another hour or two amongst the strange
intricacies of rickety bazaars, dusty baths,
and invalided mosques.

The day is still blazing hot. The main
street is more crowded than the bazaars.
Vehicles of many descriptions are passing
in every direction, while foot-passengers,
riders, camels, and donkey-drivers, mingle