or at
the little tables within, the stambouline in all its glory and
ugliness--that is, the heavy black frock-coat with stiff collar, which,
with the fez or tarboosh, is the appointed costume for all persons who
are employed by the government. The stranger, observing the large number
of men of all ages in this attire, is led to the conclusion that the
government must employ many thousands of persons in Cairo alone; but
probably there is a permitted usage in connection with it, like that
mysterious legend--"By especial appointment to the Queen"--which one
sees so often in England inscribed over the doors of little shops in
provincial High Streets, where the inns have names which to Americans
are as fantastic as anything in "Tartarin;" the "White Horse;" the "Crab
and Lobster;" the "Three Choughs;" and the "Five Alls."

The native cafes have much more local color than the homes of the
stambouline. Outside are rows of high wooden settees, upon which the
patrons of the establishment sit cross-legged, their slippers left on
the ground below. One often sees a row of Arabs squatting here, holding
no communication with each other, hearing nothing, seeing nothing,
enjoying for the moment an absolute rest. This period of daily repose,
called kief, is a necessity for Egyptians. It has its overweight, its
excess, in the smoking of hasheesh, which is one of the curses of the
land; but thousands of the people who never touch hasheesh would
understand as little how to get through their day without this
interregnum as without eating; in fact, eating is less important to
them.

The Egyptian often takes his rest at the cafe. When the American sees
Achmet and Ibrahim, who have attended to some of his errands for
infinitesimal wages--men whose sole possessions are the old cotton gowns
on their backs--when he sees them squatted in broad daylight at the
cafe, smoking the long pipes and slowly drinking the Mocha coffee, it
appears to him an inexplicable idleness, an incurable self-indulgence.
It is idleness, no doubt, but associations should not be mixed with the
subject. To the American the little cup of after-dinner coffee seems a
luxury. He does not always stop to remember that Achmet's coffee is,
very possibly, all the dinner he is to have; that it has been preceded
by nothing since daylight but a small piece of Egyptian bread, and that
it will be followed by nothing before bedtime but a mouthful of beans or
a lettuce-stalk. The daily r