seur of Egyptian art at a small expense if only the crockery stands the seas. We breakfast whenever we please-in the French fashion. The General is an early or late riser, according as we have an engagement for the day. If there are ruins. to be seen in the morning he is generally first on the deck with his Indian helmet swathed in silk, and as he never waits we are off on military time. If there are no sights to be seen the morning hours drift away. We lounge on the deck. We go among the Arabs and see them cooking. We lean over the prow and watch the sailors poke the Nile with long poles and call out the message from its bed. Sometimes a murderous feeling steals over some of the younger people, and they begin to shoot at a stray crane or pelican. I am afraid these shots do not diminish the resources of the Nile, and the General suggests that the sportsmen go ashore and fire at the poor, patient, drudging camel, who pulls his heavy-laden hump along the bank. There are long pauses of silence, in which the General maintains his long-conceded supremacy. Then come little ripples of real, useful conversation, when the General strikes some theme connected with the war or his administration. Then one wishes that he might gather up and bind these sheaves of history. Or perhaps our friend Brugsch opens upon some theme connected with Egypt. And we sit in grateful silence while he tells us of the giants who reigned in the old dynasties, of the gods they honored, of the tombs and temples, of their glory and their fall. I think that we will all say that the red-letter hours of our Nile journey were when General Grant told us how he met Lee at Appomattox, or how Sherman fought at Shiloh, or when Brugsch, in a burst of fine enthusiasm, tells us of the glories of the eighteenth dynasty, or what Karnak must have been in the days of its splendors and its pride. But you must not suppose that we have nothing but serious talk in those idle hours on the Nile. Hadden sometimes insists that Sami Bey shall become a Christian, and offers to have subscriptions raised in the churches at home for his conversion, and this generally superinduces a half serious, half laughing conversation, in which our Moslem friend shows how

firmly he believes in the Prophet, and how it is that an accomplished and widely traveled man of the world may see all the virtues of faith in the faith of Islam.

Sometimes a dahabeeah sweeps in sight, and we rush for the glasses. The dahabeeah is an institution on the Nile, a cumbrous, quaint sailing machine, with a single bending spar like. the longest side of a right-angled triangle. The dahabeeah, although a boat with sailing qualities, might really be called a suit of floating apartments. You take your dahabeeah for two or three months. You supply yourself with the luxuries of Cairo. You hire a dragoman, a crew of Arabs. If If you like books you have your small library. If you like sport you have your guns. You steal off in the morning and shoot the wild duck. You lounge and read. If you have no wind you lie in the river and watch the idle flapping of the sail and the crowd of black and brown fellahs howling for baksheesh. You enjoy your life, or you fancy you enjoy it, which is the same thing. We met several friends on the way. The first we overhauled was Mr. Drexel, and he came on board as brown as Sitting Bull, having a glorious time, but not above hearing about home. Then we boarded another, under the impression that it was an American, and found that we had fallen upon a hospitable English cousin, who had been dawdling about waiting for the wind. His first question was as to the health of the Pope, which was answered by telling of Victor Emmanuel's death. Then we came across Mr. and Mrs. Howland, enjoying their honeymoon on the Nile, but anxious for news from home. Home! Home! Yes, that is the blessed magic word which all the glory of the Orient cannot obscure. This witching life only heightens the dear memories of far America. I wonder if the third month, or let us even say the second month, does not hang wearily upon our friends in the dahabeeah. You see we are coming by steam, swift from the living world, laden with news; and when our friends ask with almost the eagerness of thirst for some drop of news from the world behind, you wonder how time must hang upon active minds the third month on the Nile. One gallant friend whom we met near Keneh informed us that the

principal amusement was betting, not on cards, but on everything-whether there would be wind or not, I suppose; whether the eggs would come on the table hard boiled or soft boiled; whether the oranges would be sweet or sour. You see how betting may become an endless amusement like arithmetical progression, and have some idea of the resources of the third month on the Nile. But we had no complaints—not one. All the stories that came to us were that our friends were having the best time, the very best time, never such a glorious time. Only that anxious thirsting question about news from home!

STREET IN CAIRO.

I suppose you will think that we are above any anxieties about home, that we are an idle, cynical party, steaming against wind and tide, steaming on toward the Equator. Why should not a very tired Ex-President, upon whose shoulders have devolved vast burdens, crave the Lotus Land, if only for

a season, a brief season? Well, I think we are enjoying all the rest a winter season on the Nile implies, but I find even now, when we are only a few days on our journey, that whenever the dusky face of a consular agent comes over the side to salute the General, there is, with some of the party at least, that thirsty question about news-not that any news is to be had in these deserts, none later than the French invasion of Bonaparte, at least, but the instinct is alive. And when one of us the other evening in an encouraging mood ventured to dwell upon the calm, the peace, the delight of this drifting, colorless, undisturbed ex

istence, there was just the faintest remonstrance, just the faintest moan about news from home and "letters" that told how a mother's heart was over the seas. So it only remained to point to the telegraph poles staring at us out of the sand, and preach a little about the influences of civilization and the electric current that binds even deserts and continents, and so on. I am afraid the preaching was like most performances of that kindbased on nothing; for I tried at the town of Esneh to send a dis

patch to The New York Herald announcing our visit to Thebes. There was not much in the dispatch, but I was anxious to have the Herald print next morning what I had written amid the ruins of Karnak. I thought there would be sentiment enough in it for a good Sunday-morning leader, and that some of my old comrades in the council room who were beating the universe for themes would thank me for the hint. But the telegraph was useless except for Government messages. "The only thing you can do," says Sami Bey, "is to send your message by mail to Cairo, and it will go from there." But as the mail generally

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goes on donkeys and we are going by steam, and as we should probably reach Cairo a week or two in advance, I concluded to carry my dispatch back with me.

When the sun throws his shadow over the desert, and the white desert sands assume a browner hue, and the plodding camels pass like shadows over the horizon and pant with the long day's burden, our sailors begin to look out for the shore. The Arab mariner loves the shore and has no fancy for the night. It may be the evil eye, which has a singular influence in all Eastern deliberations. It may be that we are not in much of a hurry, and the river is not to be depended upon. By the time the twilight comes we have reached a convenient place, and our boat hugs up snugly beside the shore. Stakes are driven into the soft clay banks, rude steps are cut in the side if it is precipitous, and very soon we have the gray-headed sheik, with his followers, coming to watch over us. Then comes the clatter of cooking and supper, the crew sitting around a large dish and helping themselves with their fingers. We have two or three devout Moslems among our crew, who go ashore to pray. The steersman, who wears a turban and a white flowing robe, is the pattern of piety. He takes his woolen mantle about him. He steps down to the brink and washes his feet, his hands, and his forehead. Then he lays his mantle upon the ground and looks toward Mecca. He stands, and holding his hands in front, with the finger tips touching, makes a low bow, a stately, slow bow, his body bending almost into a right angle. He rises again, standing erect, murmuring his prayer—that there is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet. He prostrates himself on the earth, kisses it, and rising stands erect again. The prostration takes place two or three times; the prayer is over; the faithful Moslem gathers his garment over his shoulders and comes back to the boat and supper. When our dinner is over we have coffee on the deck, where we sit and talk. If we are near a village some of the younger ones go ashore. In a few minutes we know by the barking of the dogs that they have invaded the quiet homes of an Egyptian community. Hassan generally goes along on these expeditions; but the precaution