bewilderment in entering one in Cairo.

Everything

is topsy-turvy. The children read and write from right to left, and even begin to learn their sole lesson-book, the Koran, backwards, because the latter chapters are easier and more important. The consequence is that, after a few visits to Arab schools, one cannot help a feeling of surprise when a child sneezes, or shows that he is changing his teeth at the same age as a little European. Government inspection used to be talked of for these institutions, and one of the Khedive's English apologists gave an elaborate account of it, as an accomplished fact, some years ago in a Scotch magazine—but I need hardly say even the Khedive cannot reform the Koran, and that nothing was ever really done.

Some of the Coptic schools are well worthy of a visit. The principal one in Cairo is exceedingly well attended. The boys look as if their intelligence was cultivated, and many of them read and speak either French or English with ease and a good accent. They seem to have a great interest in each other, and feel a genuine pride in seeing their companions show off their small accomplishments to strangers. The Copts take some pains to teach their girls, and have two fairly well managed schools at Cairo. The children are taught reading, writing, arithmetic, singing, and needlework. They evidently

enjoy their lessons, and we may say, with Thackeray,

that

"He can't but smile who traces

The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty prattling graces
Of these small heathens gay,"

except that the Copts are commonly Christians.
One of the things to be heard to the credit of
Towfik Pasha, the Khedive's eldest son, is the
perseverance with which he has supported a girls'
school. There are now two such establishments,
of course under Christian teachers, at Cairo. The
larger of the two is in a fine old palace, which is
admirably suited to the purpose on account of the
number of large airy rooms it contains. There is
an inner courtyard, and perfect ventilation and shelter
from the summer sun. The dormitories are beauti-
fully clean, and each child has her own bed. The
kitchen, although savage-looking enough, would be a
treasure in a modern London house, because all round
there is a sort of double roof over the fireplaces which
draws the smell up the chimneys. The cooking
is by no means to be despised; nor does it discredit
the handsome Nubian cooks, who show their white
teeth with delight when their messes are tasted and
approved. The children look clean, happy, diligent,
and healthy. The punishments for bad conduct are
bread and water, forfeiting holidays, and standing
on a form. The bastinado seems to have disappeared

from nearly all the schools. One little Egyptian, a model of beauty and grace, was on her stool of repentance as my informant, an English lady, passed through the courtyard. Her head, covered with short curly hair, came out in high relief against the whitewashed wall, and might have been the original of one of the statues in the Boulak Museum. The ugly European dress could not conceal the beauty of her lithe figure. Her small, delicately formed brown hands were clasped together, and seemed to shine on her white apron. She looked so appealingly out of her long, thickly-fringed eyes that it was impossible not to beg that she might be pardoned, particularly as she did not look in the least naughty. The directress of the school was a Syrian, and seemed a person of remarkable character. Her least word was law, and yet the children smiled when she spoke to them as if they loved her.

The Steamer-Bedreshayn-A Difficulty-An English Beauty-An Egyptian Beauty-Corkscrews-The Children at the StationsMaydoom-A Thirsty Journey-Beni Hassan.

WE left Cairo at eight by a steamer from the bridge of Boolak to Bedreshayn, on the morning of the 13th January, 1879. The railway had been broken by the inundation between the two places. The morning,

like most mornings in Egypt at this season, was lovely, and we commenced our journey in high spirits, and viewed with certain feelings of satisfaction the long train of porters who carried our luggage, our tents, and our cuisine on board. The whole deck was crowded with Arabs of various ranks, and we were politely invited to occupy one paddle-box. On the other was a celebrated London beauty, attended by her husband, maid, courier, and other satellites. The steamer only ran every second day; its departure was therefore a matter of some importance, and a large crowd attended to see us off.

Our own party consisted of an Englishman, a great collector of anteekas, who, having tried this way before, was the chief conductor of the party, and our principal dependence. We looked to him to decide every question as to the value of what we bought, the genuineness of every scarab, the place where our tent was to be pitched, the day's menu, the amount of pearl barley to be put into the soup, and the hour at which we must get up in the morning. He carried our common purse, as well as his own private purse, and a third from which he drew for the purchase of rings, scarabs, necklaces, and anteekas in general.

The second traveller was a Scottish lawyer, a sturdy, Saxon-looking man, of imperturbable temper, inquiring mind, and that general determination to enjoy himself, especially under disagreeable circumstances, which makes the best kind of traveller. He