PREFACE

This book contains merely a short account of my impressions during a journey of some 50,000 miles, and extending over three years.

A full account of all the countries visited would fill several volumes, and would form a work of a very different nature to the jottings contained herein, limited as far as possible to my own personal doings and observations.

There is much, very much, both interesting and amusing that occurred during my sojourn in Queensland as A.D.C. to the Governor. But as such experiences would hardly be in keeping with a book of travel, I have not included more than the briefest descriptions of Australian life and society.

My best thanks are due to the Rajah of Sarawak, and many others who have kindly looked through the manuscript.

B. B-P.
Guards' Club. S.W.

CONTENTS
I.		Through the Old World
II.		Ceylon and India
III.		Southern Colonies of Australia
IV.		Queensland
V.		Papua and New Guinea
VI.		New Guinea Warfare
VII.		Malaysia
VIII.		Borneo
IX.		New Zealand
X.		The Tonga or Friendly Isles
XI.		The Navigators
XII.		The Sandwich Islands
XIII.		Home Through the States
		Mileage of the Journey

CHAPTER I.
THROUGH THE OLD WORLD.

The time for departure has arrived! Feelings of excitement creep over one in spite of one's self. Sensations of pleasure and sorrow rise together. Pleasure at the prospect of all the many agreeable experiences one is likely to undergo during a journey which may last some years, and sorrow at the fare­wells to one's relations and friends, people with whom one has lived and associated all one's life, and people whom perhaps one may never hope to see again

Then there's the baggage, and that inevitable apprehension that one has forgotten to pack some­thing of importance, and that brings thoughts of letters unwritten, and directions which should have been left with reference to various belongings and affairs.

However, it is soon over. “Good-byes” are said; final directions regarding health and the wearing of flannel, etc., are received as they should be by a dutiful son, and one is rattled off in a hansom to the station. Here one is jostled about among the excited crowd of travellers and their leave-takers, bundled into a carriage, and finally the train moves out of the station and the journey is fairly com­menced. With a sigh of relief, and a reckless, devil-may-care feeling about the “things left undone,” one settles one's self clown to reflect.

Thus I found myself on the evening of February 3, 1888, starting on a journey to Australia via Con­stantinople and Suez, and in due time I was safely on board the night-boat for Rotterdam.

Waking early next morning, a peculiar bubbling and scraping noise was going on. As I sat up in my bunk I began to come to the conclusion that we must be slowly but surely sinking! I therefore thought it well to arise and dress myself, and on going on deck was surprised to see that the steamer was ploughing her way through fields of broken ice. But she stuck to it manfully till we got to Rotter­dam, where, however, the passengers had to be landed at a point some way clown the river.

I always liked Holland and the Dutch people; at least, I like the latter, and they make the best of a bad bargain with the former. The cleanliness and the thrift of these peasants is wonderful to behold, their marvellous economy in utilizing every inch of ground for cultivation, and their delightfully quaint customs and tastes. How absolutely antithetical is this half-submerged country with its dense population of old-fashioned folk to the vast wastes and the shrewd colonists of the Australias which I was about to visit! But we must be getting on, so, bidding adieu to the picturesque old red-brick houses, the canals and their barges, the women and young girls all wearing the same peculiar costume, and the clear dogs so cheerfully drawing their little carts, we flit onwards on our journey.

Then we get to Cologne, that Regent Circus of the Continent, and without stopping to look at the tourist-worn cathedral, or to invest in the genuine water of the place, we continue the tour up the banks of the Rhine.

It is needless to describe the well-known river, with its headlands and castles and vineyards, nor shall I stop to discuss any of the towns we pass through, one of which, Darmstadt, with its savouring of second-class royalty, was very well known to me some years ago. Curious Old Nurnberg is passed; one is pulled about by Custom-house officials at the frontier of Austria, and in a few hours more we are landed in Vienna.

Speaking roughly, in the centre of Vienna is the old cathedral of St. Stephen, with its high tiled roof, and its spire 450 feet high. Round about the cathedral lies the old town, with its narrow crooked streets and interesting shops. This is encircled by the “Ring” on three sides, and the river on the fourth. The Ring, which occupies the site of old fortifications, is, I think, the finest street I know, with its wide boulevards and numerous handsome buildings situated around it. Outside this extends the large new town.

Vienna, like most inland places in these climes, can he very hot in summer and very cold in winter. But as in St. Petersburg you see men going about in the thickest overcoats on a hot summer's day, so here in Vienna in the depth of winter, with snow actually  falling, you see men going without Colts, women even without hats. Yet it as intensely cold, the streets are covered with frozen snow; and gaily caparisoned, bell-bedecked horses dash along draw­ing their noiseless sledges.

In the old town are some good curiosity-shops, and old watches are a great speciality. General Keith Fraser showed me one he got here, which on press­ing a knob emitted the patriotic strains of “Rule, Britannia!”

I went one night to a ball at the British Embassy, where Sir Augustus and Lady Paget were dispensing hospitality to the elite of the place. The society of Vienna as said to be more exclusive than that of any other place: in the world. No parvenu can hope to enter the charmed upper circles, and strangers are looked upon with suspicion unless specially intro­duced. I felt lucky in thus getting an opportunity of a peep at the highest of the high. With gorgeous uniforms (though not so handsome as they were formerly) and orders, from the Golden Fleece down­ old generals who served, and suffered too, in the war of 1866, as well as young princelings in their teens, vied in the dance. The Crown Prince Rudolph who shortly afterwards met with his tragic death, was there. So was Count Kalnoky and many other well-known characters.

Different people have different modes of living, but to the untravelled habitué of a London ball­room (or rather supper-room) it might appear strange to find no champagne at such a ball; and to see the, dowagers and debutantes, the royalties and nobles, all (eagerly-imbibing the foaming beer, as enough indeed to make him raise his eyeglass.

There as something more than mere chance in the way in which one often comes across friends. At this ball I happened to meet the only Austrian I ever knew, and as I had only seen him in London, and did not even know he was in Vienna, I little expected to meet him within a few days of my arriving in his country.

I went down one morning to the old palace to sec what was to me an interesting ceremony-the changing of the guard. Although performed with great pomp, it as hardly so imposing a spectacle as we exhibit every day at St. James's. The Austrian uniforms of plain dark blue and soft caps, however serviceable, do not add much lustre to such a manoeuvre.

The troops, when at home in their splendid barracks, were busily employed digging shelter trenches in the snow; capital practice when drill is out of the question, and plenty of ground available for the purpose without disturbing the gravel of the barrack square.

War prophets are usually- wrong and General Keith Fraser, at that time our military attaché in Vienna, was telling me how all the best authorities then declared that war with Russia was absolutely inevitable, and so soon as the snow- cleared away operations would commence. The snow has long since disappeared, so has the idea of a Russo­-Austrian war; but, like the snow, it will doubtless return in its due season.

I then went on to Buda Pesth. This town, or rather Pesth, is a well-built city, with handsome edifices and embankments on the Danube. It is low and flat, but Buda, on the opposite side of the river, lies on a high ridge. The latter is picturesquely situated, with its citadel, palace, and cathedral rising in the centre. The two towns are connected by a magnificent suspension bridge, built by an English engineer.

One soon realizes that one is in Hungary. The peasants, in their embroidered jackets with silver buttons, are speaking an unknown jargon, quite: unlike any other European language; and as you go along the streets, that excellent, well-timed music, now well known to Londoners, resounds from every café or hotel, where the swarthy- performers are content with a few kreutzers dropped in the plate.

We leave again to rattle off by the comfortable, well-warmed Constantinople express, and dash through Hungary. The country is now all covered with snow, but I have been here under an almost tropical sun, to wander among the vineyards and maize-fields, and see the rows of aesthetic-looking sunflowers grown for their oil.

Night comes on, and we pass the town of Temesvar, brilliantly illuminated by electricity, at that time the only town in Europe so lit.

As we get more into the mountainous harts the cold increases; the frost formed on the inside of the window- falls off like powder, and remains as such on the cushions without melting.

Once again we are alongside the “blue Danube,” and enter Roumania, passing the picturesque Iron Gate near Orsova, and undergoing the usual frontier examination by soldier-like officials. One feels that one is beginning to get beyond the pale of what we consider civilization, when a big man enters the carriage enveloped in an elaborately-worked sheep­skin coat and tall fur hat. But he would have peen a more interesting companion had he not snored like a Carpathian bear.

At last Bucharest is reached, and an unusual spectacle meets the eye on emerging from the station. Numbers of small two-horsed sledges with jangling bells dashing wildly about are the only vehicles, and in such a conveyance one takes one's Scat. It is as good as a ride on a switchback to be driven along the narrow streets at a furious pace, whisking round corners, zigzagging in and out of the other rapid-going traffic, suddenly pulling up to avoid dashing into some other equipage, and then charging forward again with a yell from the driver and an ear-breaking crack of the whip. Sometimes two or three other sledges abreast are met coming along full tilt. A sudden and disastrous collision seems inevitable. Then all shriek out wildly, your driver pulls over sharp to one side, the sledge scoots along broadside on, and the others fly past within an inch of one. But the roads, instead of being, as might be supposed, of hard, frozen ice (as the country roads are), are deep masses of dirty powdered snow. It is a marvel how the horses get through it without stumbling.

Bucharest is not an imposing town. It is nothing more than an amalgamation of villages, consisting chiefly of small houses, mostly detached, with a very countrified air about then1, and narrow, crooked lanes running in and out amongst the houses. Yet this is said to cover as great an area of ground as Paris

The sightworthy objects are few and far between. The royal palace is nothing very out-of-the-way from an architectural point of view. The museum is, or was, new, and contained but few curiosities, except some stones found in Roumania with Latin inscriptions. And, by the way, the Roumanians look upon themselves as the modern representatives and descendants of the ancient Romans. On the bank-notes is a watered head of Caesar, and the language is very near akin to Latin.

Sir F. Laascelles, our Minister, seemed quite contented with his lot, though owning that what is to be seen in this capital is “absolutely nothing.” I had a letter of introduction to a native of the place, and he showed me all he could, but frankly said “I am ashamed of my town.” I was on the whole not very sorry to leave what I have heard described as “the gayest town in Europe” after twenty-four hours, and to be sped along in a comfortable Pullman train in an hour and a half to the banks of the Danube at Giurgevo.

There is often much delay here in crossing the big river. In summer-tinge steamboats quickly convey people across, but when the ice begins floating down and accumulating in large packs boat traffic must cease, and the voyager must either “wait till the ice floats by,” or till the river becomes compactly frozen over. The latter state was com­pletely established when 1 was there, and all the passengers transferred themselves from the most civilized railway-train into the most primitive little sledges, two in each, with a couple of shaggy ponies and ferocious-looking, big-bearded drivers.

The cold was intense, and not only all the trees about, but everything, from the rug of the “carriage” and the manes of the horses to the beard and eyelashes of the coachman, was thickly decked with white hoar-frost. An icy mist hung over all, so that no extensive view was to be had.

The sledges started off one by one in procession along the road, and after a couple of miles drove down on to the frozen Danube. Surrounded by mist, one could see nothing but the ice around in parts smooth as glass, in others rough and snow-covered, with an occasional glimpse of other sledges in front.

Following the not well-defined track, we passed several low swampy islands, and some large frozen­-in vessels, and it was often difficult to say whether we were on snow-covered ice or land. The tracks on the low-lying banks of the islands had become worn into curious undulations, in such a way that when driving along one could easily imagine, especially with the eyes shut, that one was in a boat in a seaway.

After about a quarter of an hour we got across the river, and arrived at the railway-station of Rustchuk. Numerous earthworks, more or less destroyed, reminded one of the importance this place had been during the Russo-Turkish War in 1877, but the town itself appeared uninteresting. all thickly enveloped in hard snow. We were now in Bulgaria, with its rough, innocent-looking,  semi-Turkish, semi-Russian peasants. Russian is the universal language here, which seems curious, considering how small is the connection of this country with Russia.

The railway journey through Bulgaria is not very interesting—at all events, for the first half of the route, where wide, open, undulating country is pressed, with occasionally numbers of oak-trees still covered with brown dead leaves, which are said not to fall off till the spring. Little picturesque villages are seen nestling in the valleys, and distant glimpses of the Balkans gained.

This railway had lately been, and not for the first time, entirely snowed up for some weeks. These snow-drifts do not occur in the large defiles, but in places where there are long cuttings not more than six to ten feet deep. These had become entirely- full of snow-, which had been dug out with immense labour, and now was to be seen piled up at the sides. Near Shumla the character of the country becomes more mountainous, and the snow is less. Very peculiar-looking hills rise on all sides, sloping up to near the tops, but crowned with an abrupt cliff of bright ruddy-yellow rock, looking like castle walls. Then we gradually get through the mountains, and pass through miles of swamp, the railway almost level with the water, and reeds growing up all around, in some places so high as to cut out all view from the carriage windows. Passing along the edges of large lakes the train starts up thousands of wild-fowl, which fly around till the air is quite darkened by them, and on we go, mile after mile, with more and more duck rising from the water. I expect a sportsman might find many a worse hunting ground than the neighbourhood of Gubedjie, and I longed to get out and stop there for a time. After skirting another large lake, which has the appear­ance of an arm of the sea, but is really cut off from it by a low bank of land, we arrive at Varna, that port on the Black Sea so well known to our army in 1854 It is situated on the north side of the bay, on some small hills rising from the water's edge, but does not look an inviting town, being merely a collection of small houses with a few mosques. The cemetery, with its numerous graves of English soldiers, is the chief object of interest.

A boat takes us off to the steamer, which lies at anchor some way from the shore, and the journey on the Black Sea is commenced. It is curious to find that all the stewards on board are Italian, just as in the sleeping-car train all the attendants were French. Starting in the evening, the steamer is well in the Bosphorus by next morning, and the passengers all crowd on deck to see the succession of grand scenes.

The Bosphorus is like a huge river running (and with a powerful stream between high hills abruptly rising out of the water on both sides. Numbers of birds of all sorts fly about, but especially noticeable are the flocks of a certain small petrel, which continually fly rapidly along close above the water, in a hurried, impatient way, which gave rise to the idea of their being the “souls of the departed.”

Numerous fishing boats are dotted about; and on shore many fine-looking houses rise one above another, becoming more plentiful as Constantinople is approached.

Descriptions have often been written of the grand sight presented by Constantinople and the Golden Horn when viewed from the Bosphorus. I am not quite sure that I was not just a little disappointed. One generally is so when one expects a grand sight. But to see the numerous white mosques with domes and minarets, and masses of houses interspersed with dark cypress-trees, rising in a gentle slope from the water's edge, cannot fail to please the eye.

Around the entrance to the Golden Horn is a mass of shipping of all sorts, from large steamers to the native “calques.”

On landing at Galata one has to go through a most amusing Custom-house examination; at least, it amused me, being in no particular hurry and a happy state of mind, though doubtless very vexing to anyone pressed for time or out of sorts. Large packages are easily passed over by the officials, but it is the small articles that arouse their curiosity. A box of lozenges with sealed paper cover was an object of great suspicion, and had to be torn open. My small camera could not be passed merely on my word that it was a photographic apparatus only. Of course, to open it meant spoiling all my best photographs of the Bosphorus, but the gentleman insisted on seeing the interior. A happy thought struck me. Instead of turning the knob and Straightway opening the back, I asked to be supplied with a screw-driver, in order, as I explained, to take out all the small screws round the edge, and so open the apparatus. But after some hesitation he came to the conclusion that that would take too long; so it was passed forthwith. Then, one would have thought that these officials must be well acquainted with the British tourist, and, as a consequence, with a Bradshaw's Guide. Yet, to my surprise, they eagerly annexed this great work and passed it in to be examined by a literary expert, after which it was duly returned to me.

One has often read of the different parts of Con­stantinople, but it is difficult for a stranger to get a clear idea of it. Pera contains the hotels and European quarter; Galata is the shipping part; while Stamboul is the purely Turkish town, and Scutari a pleasant suburb.

In Pera there are one or two tolerable though narrow streets, but Stamboul is chiefly a mass of irregular, crooked, dirty, badly paved, and often steep lanes.

The mosque of St. Sophia is, of course, one of the first sights to see. Outside it is merely a vast pile of domes of various sizes, with minarets rising from among them. But the inside is truly stupend­ous, the immense dome rising up 200 feet above the floor. All around are great columns of various stones, flags, ostrich eggs, and lamps hanging from long chains, prayer-carpets spread over the floor, and many large Arabic devices.

Close by is the lofty marble gate of the old palace, which is hence called the Sublime Porte. Other mosques abound through the city, many of great interest, some being nearly as large as St. Sophia. There are as many mosques in Constan­tinople as there are days in the year.

At certain hours of the day “muezzins” will appear at the little galleries high up on the slender minarets, and, in a loud singing voice, call the faithful to prayer.

Then there are numerous other sights. The tombs of the Sultans; the museum of the Janis­saries, a kind of local Madame Tussaud's; the cemeteries, with their curious turbaned and be-fezzed tombstones—all have to be visited. Rides must be taken round the huge old city walls, with their massive gate-towers, and money has to be spent in the Oriental bazaars.

The far-famed dogs of Constantinople, to be seen by the dozen in every street, and who won't get out of your way, are fat, sleepy animals with thick reddish hair, very unlike the half-starved Mangy curs who slink away from you in Cairo and other Eastern places.

I felt that it was but my duty whilst here to have a real Turkish bath. However, I was much disap­pointed, for, although I went to what was recommended as the best, I thought it was not half so com­fortable, not half so Oriental as those I had been to in England. The place was like a succession of lofty cellars, with numerous creeping things on the walls, and here one was hulled about by some cheeky boys even the sitting out afterwards, to drink Turkish coffee and vainly suck away at the hubble-bubble, was by no means my idea of Oriental luxuriousness.

The British Embassy is a fine palatial building, pleasantly situated on the rising ground of Pera. Sir W. White (also gone, alas!) entertained us to a curiously international luncheon, where the general conversation was carried on alternately in English, French, and German.

There is a very good club for—I was going to say Europeans but should say for foreigners; in fact, I believe there are two, though I only went to the Cercle d'Orient.

Plenty of gaiety seems to go on. We went to an amusing bal masque in theatre Francaise, which might have been in Paris or anywhere. At night the ladies are mostly conveyed in sedan chairs not a bad idea for getting about the narrow, dirty streets.

On leaving Constantinople the steamer at once enters the Sea of Marmora, and after some ten hours' steam gets into the Dardanelles. This channel is not so picturesque as the Bosphorus, the shores being for the most part low open downs. Among the distant hills to the south is pointed out the site of Troy, conjuring up visions quite out of keeping with the surroundings. After some hours the town of Dardanelles, on the Asiatic side, is reached. It is situated just at the narrowest part of the straits, less than a mile wide, known as the Hellespont, where Xerxes, and later Alexander, crossed their armies by a bridge of boats.

On either side numerous forts are to be seen, both ancient and modern, the latter being well armed with heavy guns.

We soon get out into the Aegean Sea, and pass­ing Besika Ray and numerous islands, arrive at Mitylene. The town is very picturesque. A fine old castle crowns a small hill on the peninsula which forms the harbour, and splendid wooded hills rise abruptly all round, with houses dotted about them.

As the shades of evening fall the steamer gets under way, and by early next morning arrives at Smyrna.

The Bay of Smyrna is certainly grandly pictur­esque — a large sheet of water surrounded by great rugged mountains towering up into the storm-clouds. The town is situated on a flat piece of land almost level with the water, but immediately behind it rises a hill, Mount Pagus, surmounted by the ruins of an old castle, the view from which, of the bay in front and the plains of Magnesia stretching out behind, well repays a visit-as a guide-book would say. The quays form fine wide esplanades, but the back­streets are narrow and dirty and thoroughly Eastern, though the houses generally have an Italian look, being painted yellow or pink, with green Venetian shutters and tiled roofs. The population is very mixed-Jews, Armenians, Turks, and Greeks loung­ing about with Englishmen and Frenchmen. The bazaars are most tempting, being full of quaint curios and antiquities. Luckily, Smyrna is not yet infested with sightseers, and so one goes about rather as an object of curiosity. I had no less than three self-appointed guides in my retinue, each one trying his best to explain everything. I made a great bargain with one “vendor of curios,” after which one of my guides did me the compliment to say, “You are yet young! but you have your eyes open!”

Again boarding the steamer, we then make for Greece, and land at the Piraeus, the port of Athens. It is a small town situated on the bay, with several fortifications on the hills around. In twenty minutes the train runs all) to Athens over a flat open plain.

The country has a very tropical look, considering that it is in Europe, almost the only large plants being cacti and aloes. The general appearance of Athens is well known-the modern town lying in the valley, with the Acropolis rising grandly on one side and Mount Lycabettus on the other, and the many fine ruined temples around.

The tour has to be made of the temple of Theseus, with its fairly perfect though discoloured marble columns; theatre of Dionysius, with its marble seats of the pattern so well known in Alma Tadema's pictures, with the name, or rather title, of the would-be occupant clearly carved on each; the ugly arch of Hadrian; and the imposing though few remains of the temple of Jupiter Olympus.

But first the Acropolis must be visited. The Propylaea with its grand portico and night of steps, all of white marble, is penetrated, remains of temples and numerous columns passed by, and the open space on top, covered with the debris of fine buildings, reached; and now the Parthenon stands boldly before us against the sky, wrecked and dilapidated, not So much by time as by an explosion in comparatively modern times, when the Turks used the place as a fort. Portions of the frieze have come to England as the Elgin marbles, and masses of material removed as “relics.” Close by is the Erechtheum, a smaller temple, with its caryatides.

But the whole place is in a more ruined state than I expected I quite agree with the American who, when asked his opinion of the Acropolis, replied “very fine, but it's a pity it's so out of repair.” None of the ruins of Athens are so grand and im­posing as those of ancient Egypt.

The modern town presents no great peculiarities, though the dresses of the King's Guards, with their starched kilts or petticoats and short jackets, have a very comical yet fascinating appearance.

The Aegean Sea, thickly studded with islands, would hardly be the place where one would expect to encounter a heavy sea. But it is surprising how suddenly a very nasty sea can rise and make the steamer look very silly. We had a bad time of it till we passed Cape Sidaro, in Crete, but then got into the glorious sunshine of Africa.

On first arriving at Alexandria from Europe, one is always struck by the heat, the glare, and the tropical appearance of the place, and one marvels at the energy displayed by the natives as they shout and struggle with one another in their anxiety to assist in some way or other the fresh -arriving traveller: great is the contrast between them and the sleepy Turks! The brilliant sun shows up the white buildings against the deep-blue sky, contrast­ing with the dark-foliaged trees and trimmed date palms; while away to either side stretch the yellow sand-hills, with their windmills and dilapidated forts.

Parts of Alexandria are, of course, thoroughly characteristic of the East, though the streets are generally wide and straight. The houses are mostly square and flat-roofed, with plastered, and often windowless walls, decorated with blue or yellow distemper. The crowded streets are thronged with representatives of all nationalities; sailors from various parts of the world sit outside the - many Greek or Italian wine shops; while the Egyptian donkey, with his boy and fat pommelled saddle, is ever ready to convey you where you will.

The European quarter, round about the Place Mahomet Ali, is rising phoenix-like from the ruins caused in 1882. Here are many fine houses, several good hotels, and two clubs.

What seems remarkable is not the remains, but the absence of remains, of the old city, once so prosperous, which stood upon this site. Pompey's pillar and a few walls and other half-buried ruins are practically all that is to be seen of that ancient metropolis, said to have contained over half a million inhabitants, and to have been one of the most magnificent cities of antiquity.

From Alexandria to Cairo (130 miles the train passes through the prolific Delta of the Nile, that extraordinary country made and rendered fertile by the alluvial deposits brought from afar by the. great river.

Here may be seen plantations of cotton and sugar, fields of dourrah and maize, groves of date-palms and bananas, and other cultivation. Ancient re­mains without number have been discovered in almost all parts of the Delta.

Out of England, I don't know any place more interesting, or offering more variety, than Cairo and its neighbourhood. Nearly everything in the way of the comforts of civilization Can be got, while one is surrounded by all the curiosities of Orientalism.

One can go to the European theatre, or see howling dervishes; one can do one's shopping in well-supplied shops, or go and bargain in the picturesque bazaars; good quail or snipe shooting is to be got, or one can shoot pelicans, flamingoes, and other odd birds; one can play polo, or ride on a camel. As regards antiquities, they are innumer­able. Mahommedan mosques and tombs or ex­tensive Roman remains may be compared with the obelisks, tombs, and pyramids of the ancient Egyptians. Then society of all kinds, with its festivities, visits to recent British battle-fields, trips on the Nile, visits to the ostrich-farm, and to the Boulac Museum. all help to fill the time, to say nothing of cricket and tennis, drives on the Gezireh, or losing money at the roulette-tables. Such is Cairo, now becoming almost an English watering place.

The Egyptian police are very ready with their sticks, and it is a most ludicrous sight to see some man in a crowd dragged out by the police to an open spot, thrown down so as to lie on his front, and whilst one “bobby” holds him, well belaboured by another with the" stick, the man, of course, shriek­ing like a drunken Irishwoman; but once the chastisement ceases, he is almost as eager as ever to join the jabbering crowd in their attempts to extort “backsheesh” (for such seems to be the ultimate object of most crowds in Egypt), or whatever may be their aim.

But the police are very attentive to their duty. I once discovered a donkey with a very bad sore back. I called the attention of the police to it. The donkey-boy was promptly “run-in” and when I appeared at the police-station to give evidence, he was brought before me heavily manacled in chains, and I was asked by the superintendent what I would like to award the culprit. “Courbash” (flogging with a leather thong they said was forbidden, so I signed my name to a document in Arabic condemning the unhappy wretch to durance vile until the following day.

The Pyramids, so grandly imposing to look upon, and so mysterious in their origin, are undoubtedly among the most wonderful objects to be seen. The ascent of the Great Pyramid is easy enough to any­one of sound physique and possessing a good “head,” though I saw a young and gallant officer get so giddy at the summit that he had to be bodily carried down by the Arabs. It is very safe to bet a man that he will not mount to the top without the aid of natives. Not that it is so difficult for him to accom­plish by himself, but, try as he may, he will always be quickly followed by half a dozen agile Arabs, who will surely overtake him, and insist, despite all remonstrances, on helping him up.

Not many would care to visit more than once the interior of the Pyramid, with its stifling atmosphere and smell of bats. I should require a considerable recompense before I followed the example of an uncle of mine (Piazzi Smyth), and took all) my quarters there.

Most people consider the Sphinx disappointing. Many representations of it—as, for instance, on the Egyptian stamps—make it appear almost as large as the great Pyramids; but although it is a truly enormous head, it looks very insignificant beside these other colossal erections.

Round about the Pyramids, which are of all sizes, are innumerable ancient tombs with paintings on their walls as fresh as if done yesterday.

The Serapeum at Sakkam is another wonderful sight, with its huge sarcophagi beautifully cut out of single blocks of hard stone.

At Heliopolis, whence originally came “Cleopatra's needle,” except for one obelisk, there is nothing of great interest, though further afield many more marvels are visitable.

Logs, wretched, barking, half-starved curs, hang about everywhere, but especially in the suburbs. Cowardly enough in the day time when you come across one, they are comparatively bold when prowling around in large packs at night. I had an, exciting adventure one evening when returning home alone by moonlight. I had to cross a wide, open sandy tract, and when near the middle of it I heard, and presently perceived, a large troop of yelping curs coming straight towards me. I felt somewhat apprehensive, not having even a stick with which to defend myself. Nearer and nearer they carne, as if to surround me. I quickened my lace, but that only encouraged them. I stopped and made insult­ing remarks, but the only result was that they barked the more in defiance. They closed in, and I imagined myself shortly being rent in pieces, and bits of tattered clothes being all that could be found of me next morning! All around was nothing but sand, without even a blade of grass to be of any avail. I was just about to surrender myself to their jaws, when I thought I saw a stone, and determined to do what little revengeful damage I could by fling­ing it into the thick of them. I stepped forward and stooped to pick it up. It was only a dead leaf! But, to my utter astonishment, as if delivered by a miracle, I saw that all the dogs immediately turned and fled in all directions, with their tails between their legs! I pursued my way, and when, after a bit, they rallied and returned to the charge, I quietly stooped down and hurled a pinch of sand at my persecutors with most telling effect. They had evidently stood (!) fire before this.

Visitors in Egypt are tormented with flies and also with children, both of them being more per­sistent here than elsewhere. The flies are ill-mannered, and the children are ever begging for  “backsheesh.” None of the awe-inspiring temples can be visited without one's running the gauntlet of a crowd of boys selling scarabs and curios. I am told that most of these (the curios, not the boys) are of Birmingham manufacture; but I doubt it. I hope better work would be turned out there. Very often, however, genuine articles are got among the worthless imitations.

Having visited all the sights about Cairo, and wearying of Shepheard's veranda, and of the itinerant conjurer or snake-charmer; of the tinkle of the drink-seller's brass cups, and of the trilling shriek of the ubiquitous kites; and having seen enough of the gaudy syces running before the carriages of the officials, and of the heavily-laden, slow-progressing camels bearing their goods to market, we may start on an expedition up the Nile.

The railway will take us as far as Assiut, passing between the river and the canals; and after a short stay to inspect the cave-tombs in the neighbouring hills, we may continue the journey by boat. The Nile scenery becomes slightly monotonous as we pass mile after mile of steep mud-banks, with “shadoofs” (buckets suspended from the end of a pivoted pole) being worked by a couple of men at regular intervals; above this, green cultivation, with occasional date-palms; and distant rocky mountains of a peculiar pinkish colour in the background. Then we pass numerous villages and towns, with their many pigeon-towers and thousands of pigeons kept to fertilize the ground. Many other birds are seen too-pelicans flying over at great height in long strings, sacred ibis feeding in the fields, and vultures of several varieties. Then we see rafts formed entirely of pottery being floated down stream, and natives swimming the river on bunches of reeds.

The first old Egyptian temple we get to is at Denderah, near Keneh, where we are duly im­pressed with the enormous columns and the fresh appearance of the carvings which cover every available part of the walls. But on getting to Luxor we find still larger and more imposing columns, though the buildings are less complete. We then visit Medinet Aboo. the Colossi, and the site of Thebes, with its interesting tombs. Esneh, Edfu, and other temples are passed, and so we arrive at Assouan and the first cataract, where the Nile dashes through innumerable small channels among rocks and boulders.

At the other end of this cataract is the beautiful island and temple of Philae, after which the river narrows and the banks become rocky. Still further up the Nile, beyond Korosko, is the huge cave temple of Aboo Simbul.

But I am drifting away into a sort of dreamland, for my experiences of the Upper Nile occurred when I was in the Camel Corps, and years before the journey I am properly describing. However, these dreams rise before me and drift onward. I see visions of sandy plains bordering the river, brilliant orange on the left bank, and muddy gray on  the right. [An ingenious theory has been suggested that this extraordinary river, running on its course through thousands of years, has been affected by the rotation of the earth, and moved westwards inch by inch].

I see curiously-shaped rocky hills rising m the purple distance, fringes of date-palms along the river-banks, with the low mud-walls of native houses. Korosko, Derr, and Wady Halfa, mot much more than so many collections of huts, are passed, and the second cataract is surmounted. We get up to the region where, nuggers—large, clumsily though strongly built boats, with oblong shaped sails take the place of the lateen-rigged dahabiyehs. Creeking  “sakiyehs,” turned by oxen, supersede the shadoofs for irrigation. The people are darker, and become intermixed with the true coal-black negroes. Fuzzy-haired desert tribesmen, with their camels are met, though we see but little sign of life in the desert; a very occasional gazelle, but more often a number of sand-grouse coming down to the river for a drink in the evening. At certain seasons the ever-changeful chameleon is to be seen in every tree; while crocodiles lie basking on the mud-banks, though I expect that our expeditions up the Nile have done much to drive them away.

Nothing worthy of the name of a town is reached until we get to Dongola. But it is no good going further—we must awake again—for changes rapidly take place in these roughly-built towns, and by now, doubtless, there is much alteration in this land, which is, to all intents and purposes, at present quite a terra incognita  So let us return to Cairo.

In going by rail from Cairo to Ismailia or Suez, one passes through the battlefield of Tel-el-Kebir, though there is not much to be seen except the half­ demolished parapets and ditches extending across the open desert.

Suez is much like any other Egyptian town, mud-walls, lattice windows, mosques, and donkeys. There are bazaars, of course, but little of special in­terest to anyone who knows Egypt.

On leaving Suez by steamer to proceed down the Red Sea a beautiful sight is presented by the rocky hills in the distance standing up against the clear flue sky, of a peculiar and fantastic-looking pinkish colour, veiled by an apparent mist, although the country is the dryest of the dry.

But even these are soon left behind, and, with the exception perhaps of a few islets, no other land is seen till the Bab-el-Mandeb (Gate of Tears) is reached. Through this narrow channel a strong current flows from the Indian Ocean, for the Red Sea, situate in the midst of the rainless district, is ever evaporating in the hot sun, unreplenished by rivers or streams from the parched deserts which border it.

Passing the little British possession, Perim Island, the key to the Red Sea and Suez Canal, there is quite an excitement among the passengers on board, as glasses of all sorts and sizes are produced with which to gaze in rapture on the signalman's house, as if it were an object of far more interest than the Great Pyramid itself. I know Perim belongs to England, but I can't find out whether it forms part of Asia or Africa.

When Aden is reached, and a few hours may be spent ashore to go and look at the old tanks. It is quite a relief after the heat of the Red Sea.

One voyage on a large ocean steamer is very like another. Reading and sleeping generally occupy most of the time. Chess, deck-quoits, and cards fill up a few more hours, and the inevitable Calcutta sweep on the run of the day adds a little excitement, and forms a grand topic for starting conversation. Then theatricals, fancy-dress balls and athletic sports are got up when there are sufficient ener­getic passengers. It is quite surprising what very effective dresses can be made out of materials at hand. A couple of sheets and a few coloured silk Handkerchiefs may be made into most becoming garments for ladies, or even men.

Then some time during the voyage it is usual to have a fire drill, when all the ship's crew turn out and go to their appointed stations, man the pumps, and get the boats ready for lowering. This is a most wise proceeding,; but meanwhile all the pas­sengers look on at the performance, and, moreover, generally get very much in the way. I always wanted to know what they would do in the event of real alarm. Are they then to crowd about and look on and get in the way? They ought at least to be told what is expected of them.

		B. F. S. Baden-Powell, In Savage Isles and Settled Lands: Malaysia, Australasia, and Polynesia, 1888-1891. Chapter II. Ceylon and India.
		Major Baden F. S. Baden-Powell was one of B-P's younger brothers.  He was a pioneer of military aviation, an officer in the Scot's Guards and a Fellow of both the Royal Aeronautical Society and Royal Geographical Society. He was also author of In Savage Isles and Settled Lands published in 1892.
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