The bazaars, however, show no sign of European intrusion, and are to-day as Oriental as when Lane wrote his "Modern Egyptians." The bazaars of Damascus, possibly, are more correctly Eastern, but not so those of Constantinople and Smyrna. John Bull invades the bazaars of Cairo only as a sight-seer and purchaser, wearing sun-helmet and pugree, however chilling the wintry weather. He usually thinks the prices dear, and parts with his coins only after hours of dickering, and does not forget his bakshish. The bazaars are the only places in Egypt where the tourist receives bakshish. Elsewhere he gives it, or could give it, every minute of the day. Americans, on the other hand, regard the prices as cheap, and buy, buy, buy. It amuses them to sip the shopkeeper's excellent coffee and smoke his perfumed cigarettes. This hospitality partaken of, they buy more embroidered jackets, gauze scarfs, and inlaid weapons. Both British and American pay more than the things are worth, of course; but the Transatlantic purchaser has a balance of time to his credit.

It is novel to buy silk fabrics by weight rather than by measurement. The slipper bazaar, with the sun shut out by projecting lattices and awnings, is a subdued blend of red and yellow. Black leather is seldom seen there. The crude art of the brassworkers' lane, where serious-faced youths embellish finger-basins and coffee-trays with designs conceived by their forefathers when perspective was not valued, is popular. The carpet and rug bazaar

is a busy mart, where values are high and the sellers understand human nature. Turn to the right, turn to the left, go where you will, the shops appeal to some taste or fancy you possess. The jewelry bazaar, with its anklets and nose-rings of leaden-looking silver or brassy gold, has no temptation for the American, however.

The dingy passage where scents are dealt in is a nest of cheats who can sell a phial of common perfumed oil for genuine attar or essence without compunction. The tent bazaar, in which truly artistic appliqué awnings and hangings are wrought without visible pattern by men and boys, is always inviting. Two or three of these needlemen, perhaps, were sent to Chicago during the World's Fair; but a hundred will tell you they have been in Chicago, each producing dog-eared business cards or a stray coin of Uncle Sam's minting in substantiation of the statement. They are agreed that the exposition was a grand "fantasia," but most of them witnessed it vicariously. "Anteekas" are offered for sale in nearly every shop of every department of the vast labyrinth. The scarab, especially, is pushed into your face on every hand, and whether you give a piaster or a dozen coins of gold, you will have the same uncertainty as to the genuineness of the sacred beetle. The Red Sea turquoise, gummed to a bit of reed, is likewise omnipresent; it is beautiful to look at, but may change color in a week.

The throng of people in the bazaars is a study in humanity, as entertaining, perhaps, as the contents

of the shops. Rotund women, enveloped in the unbecoming black-silk habbeh, displaying feet and ankles clad in magenta stockings and white slippers, seem to go out of their way to jostle Europeans, until driven off by one's dragoman. Donkeys, even camels, laden with merchandise, force their way through passages scarcely wide enough for two persons walking abreast. These, and persistent beggars and offensively dirty children, are the drawbacks to one's enjoyment here. But the bazaars are interesting, withal.

On the way back through the Mouski a half-hour may profitably be passed in viewing the fabrication at Hatoun's or Parvis's of the mushrabeah work, to be utilized in artistic screens and tables. Primitive indeed is the method of turning the myriad bits of wood for the mushrabeah, on tiny lathes revolved by hand, while the chisel is held by the bare feet of the operator, generally a lad, who guides the tool with the other hand.

The Mouski used to be all that an Oriental street of shops should be, but the past dozen years have seen a great change in its character. There no longer is matting overhead, affording protection from the parching sun in summer. In its place swinging signs indicate the presence of modern establishments, including a "British Bar," where all and sundry are cordially invited to try the American drinks compounded by La Belle Violette, "just arrived from Chicago." There are jewelers' shops that would attract notice in the Avenue de l'Opéra in Paris, the windows of which are filled with dia