eople, and made one's self familiar with their traditions, their
temperament, their history, and, above all, with the language which they
speak. Anything less than this is observation from the outside alone,
which is sure to be founded upon misapprehension. The French and the
English are separated by merely the few miles of the Channel, and they
have, to a certain extent, a common language; for though the French do
not often understand English, the English very generally understand
something of French. Yet it is said that these two nations have never
thoroughly comprehended each other either as nations or individuals; and
it is even added that, owing to their differing temperaments, they will
never reach a clear appreciation of each other's merits; demerits, of
course, are easier. Our own country has a language which is, on the
whole, nearer the English tongue perhaps than is the speech of France;
yet have we not felt now and then that English travellers have
misunderstood us? If this is the case among people who are all
Occidentals together, how much more difficult must be a thorough
comprehension by us of those ancient nations who were old before we were
born?

[Illustration: SOUVENIRS OF CAIRO]

The East is the land of mystery. If one cares for it at all, one loves
it; there is no half-way. If one does not love it, one really (though
perhaps not avowedly) hates it--hates it and all its ways. But for those
who love it the charm is so strong that no surprise is felt in reading
or hearing of Europeans who have left all to take up a wandering
existence there for long years or for life--the spirit of Browning's
"What's become of Waring?"

All of us cannot be Warings, however, and the time comes at last when we
must take leave. The streets of Cairo have been for some time adorned
with placards whose announcements begin, in large type, "Travellers
returning to Europe." We are indeed far away when returning to Europe is
a step towards home. We wait for the last festival--the Shem-en-Neseem,
or Smelling of the Zephyr--the annual picnic day, when the people go
into the country to gather flowers and breathe the soft air before the
opening of the regular season for the Khamsin. Then comes the journey by
railway to Alexandria. We wave a handkerchief (now fringed on all four
sides by the colored threads of the laundresses) to the few friends
still left behind. They respond; and so do all the Mustaphas, Achmets,
and Ibrahims who