f winding lanes, some of them
not more than three feet broad, opening into and leading out of each
other, unpaved, dirty, roofed far above, where the high stone houses
end, with a lattice-work of old mats--what is the use of declaring that
this maze is one of the most delightful places in the world? There is no
use; one must see it to believe it.

[Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN WOMAN

From a photograph by Abdullah Freres, Cairo]

We approach the bazaars by the Mooski, a street which has lost all its
ancient attraction--which is, in fact, one of the most commonplace
avenues I know. But near its end the enchantment begins, and whether we
enter the flag bazaar, the lemon-colored-slipper bazaar, the
gold-and-silver bazaar, the bazaar of the Soudan, the bazaar of silks
and embroideries, the bazaar of Turkish carpets, or the lane of perfumes
felicitously named by the donkey-boys the smell bazaar, we are soon in
the condition of children before a magician's table. I defy any one to
resist it. The most tired American business man looks about him with
awakened interest, the lines of his face relax and turn into the
wrinkles we associate with laughter, as he sees the small, frontless
shops, the long-skirted merchants, and the sewing, embroidering,
cross-legged crowd. The best way, indeed, to view the bazaars is to
relax--to relax your ideas of time as well as of pace, and not be in a
hurry about anything. Accompany some one who is buying, but do not buy
yourself; then you can have a seat on the divan, and even (as a friend
of the purchaser) one of those wee cups of black coffee which the
merchant offers, and which, whether you like it or not, you take,
because it belongs to the scene. Thus seated, you can look about at your
ease.

In these days, when every one is rereading the _Arabian Nights_, the
learned in Burton's translation, the outside public in Lady Burton's,
even the most unmethodical of writers feels himself, in connection with
Cairo, forced towards the inevitable allusion to Haroun. But once within
the precincts of the Khan Khaleel, he does not need to have his fancy
jogged by Burton or any one else; he thinks of the _Arabian Nights_
instinctively, and "it's a poor tale," indeed, to quote Mrs. Poyser, if
he does not meet the one-eyed calendar in the very first booth. But, as
has already been said, it is useless to describe. All one can do is to
set down a few impressions. One of the first of these is the charming
ligh