(Here in parentheses let me give the new chum a word of advice on the engaging of guides in Egypt. On arriving at the particular show he has set out to inspect—and often before he gets within coo-ee of it—he will find himself beset by an ill-clad and evil-smelling mob of hooligans all yelling fit to raise Lazarus. Don't let them rattle him, however; his game is to select the biggest, ugliest, loudest-voiced and most villainous-looking assassin in the push, make his bargain with the gentleman much as he would with a Paddy jarvey, then order him to "Lead on, Macduff"—and leave the rest to the aforesaid gentleman. There will be no further trouble with the other lot; the guide, if our friend possesses the faculty of reading faces, will see to that.) I soon found I had made a wise selection, for a single glance from the Vizier's eagle eye was sufficient to send the rest of the unemployed scuttling to cover. He didn't have to use his feet once; it was another instance of the triumph of mind over matter. I told him so, but I fancy he didn't quite take me—bowed almost to the ground as he requested me to "spik Engelsch as he no spik French moch well." I think he must have been the Prince of all the Assassins. On entering Aladdin's Palace the first thing that strikes you is the narrowness and crookedness of the streets: in many places a long-armed man could pinch scent from a booth on one side, while helping himself to a silk scarf on the other—if he were not watched so closely by the merchants. Then the light is very subdued; something like that you run across in the bush, while everywhere your nose is assailed by the perfume of crushed flowers and spices. Look upward and you will see the sky a mere slit between the confining walls of the lofty, old-world houses; look around and you will see the wealth of the East in lavish profusion. In a word, you are in Old Cairo, to my mind one of the most interesting spots in Egypt.