much work, too, with curious bamboo boxes, and light abnormal luggage, which the ladies convey upstairs, and much languid laughter, which is but as the echo of English laughter. But the bulk of the passengers, with that true English energy that no solar heat can ever dry up, have already leaped into carriages, and torn off to see the old Eastern city. Indeed, if you happen to be in the bazaars the day the Suez mail arrives, you soon become acquainted with the fact. You are perhaps cheapening an old sword-blade, or buying some striped bornouse, or a leopard’s skin fresh from Nubia, or some rare perfume, or some gold embroidery, when the English appear. The crowd is tremendous under the awning-roof of the narrow bazaar, there is one vast tossing sea of parti-coloured turbans. The grave dealer is imperturbably fraudulent. Every moment you are in danger; now the horns of a bullock threaten you, now the wheels of a dray, or the heels of a soldier’s horse. Suddenly there comes a shout of “Guarde-a-a-a-áah!” a shout, no a yell, then a smart Nubian in snowy robe, well girt up, and with bare, muscular legs, races by, shouting that insolent and reckless warning. The crowd divides, there is a lane quickly made, and through that dashes an open carriage full of Englishmen, all in sun-helmets, all lean, dry, and yellow, and in the thinnest of nankeen-coloured envelopes. They see us and greet us with a smile, a nod, or a shout, according to their age, vivacity, or heartiness. There is no moving without meeting them between the time of their arrival and dusk. They have literally taken possession of the city. They are on the citadel hill looking down on the distant stone tents of the pyramids, and on the Pasha’s encampment of dromedaries. They are peeping into mosques, looking at the pendent ostrich eggs and the chains of lamps. They are riding between the sugar-canes on the old Cairo road: they are looking at the green and red Nile boats at Boulak. They are threading the drug bazaar and the Jews’ quarter: they are rushing about on donkeys on the shady road to the Shoobra gardens. They are buying hatsful of scented, loose-skinned, Mandarin oranges, or sticking crimson pomegranate flowers in their hats. Gay, reckless, careless of Arab public opinion, they are like boys fresh from school, or sailors ashore after a long cruise.
The talk of the outward bound to the homeward bound is of everything cockney, conservative, local, and English; how the subterranean railway gets on; how Olmar walks head downwards; how London windows are bristling with knives, daggers, whistles, and knuckle dusters. The talk of the homeward bound is of the surf at Madras, the heat at Peshawar, the pleasant life at the Hills, of Colonel this, and Captain the other, and “our Presidency,” of the 50th, and the 70th, and the 140th, and the 150th; and this unexpected marriage, and that expected death. And on they talk of their mutual hopes, fears, regrets, and anticipations. The poor wife, whose husband died last year at Dum-Dum, looks with interest and sympathy at the young wife, who, bright and hopeful, is going out, for the first time, and knows nothing of the dangers and bereavements she has to encounter. Side by side ride and walk the young cadets, with the peach bloom still on their cheeks, and the old veterans who are about to retire on half-pay, and thankful enough to do it.
And now the dusty carriages come dropping in one by one; and one by one the tired riders dismount painfully from their untameable donkeys. Then comes the refreshing wash, and the pleasant chat with old comrades before dinner. How glad the Englishman is to throw off the officer! I see no epaulettes, no sword, no orders, no medals; yet every second man is a soldier and a hero.
If there is one thing at Shepherd’s that delights the homeward-bound and the outward-bound, it is the old-fashioned bar. Yes, in that great palace ball, far down on the left-hand side, there is actually a counter where bottled beer, lemonade, soda water, and cognac are sold, and where a real barmaid presides—a real, chatty, coquettish barmaid. After years of turbans, and punkah pullers, and helpless creatures in white robes, it is as good as seeing England to see a real barmaid; and this accounts, I suppose, for the enormous quantity of bitter beer drunk on these occasions to wash down the dust of the Suez desert and the recollections of the lurid heat of that horrible Red Sea. Everyone is, in fact, so thirsty that I begin almost to believe the horrible falsehood that Herodotus tells us about the army of Xerxes drinking a river dry on their way to Greece. Poor outward-bound! the Red Sea and India is before them, and who knows when they may taste again bitter beer the least cool. Yes, that vibrating roar is the dinner gong sounding solemn, and warning us of a sacrifice to Juggernaut. The doors are flying open, all down the barrack-like corridors of Shepherd’s. O wonderful art of woman! A short hour has removed all traces of the sea voyage, fatigue, and desert heat. The ladies re-appear floating on muslin clouds, beautiful as day-break in the tropics. Rosy or yellow they blend, and join beautifully by contrast. They are all smiles and pretty babble about “punkawallahs,” and all that sort of “Indian shop-talk,” as an irreverent naval surgeon near me calls it. How the dear creatures enjoy the quiet retirement of the huge hotel after Red Sea and shipboard. They have revived as the rose of Jericho does when it is dipped in water. The thought of dear England has restored them at once to youth. The long home-sickness at the lonely station is forgotten. The whirlwind of the mutiny seems now they are among old friends, and looking towards England, but as a dream when one awakens. Even old rivals on board ship greet each other with good nature. Young ladies going out to India to marry, look with approval on the young married lady returning with her prize to England. Old majors, with leather faces, are preposterously gallant. Blooming striplings blush more even than they were wont to blush; but as for the old residents of the hotel (Rev. Mr. Blaireau, for instance, from Aden), they alone, jostled and disregarded, look forlorn, fallen, and glum; they don’t like this inroad of barbarians into the “caravanserai,” as they rudely call the hotel that has so long been their pleasant retreat. This day they know they will not be waited on well, nor will they get too much to eat if they do