ABSTRACT
Many of the reaches of the Nile were like what is seen from the window where these lines are written, as the heavy tide of the Severn runs sleepily past the red cliffs near Newnham. Those corn-fields are instead of maize; those bushy elms for palm-trees. The spires that point our English landscape must be thought of as minarets, and this pleasant “Severn Bank Hotel” is a change from the door-less, wall-less, window-less “khan” of the East, with only a roof and pillars, and a general odour of donkeydom. Cotton bursts forth on all sides. Children are plucking it in the fields, and singing as they gather the fleecy pods into their little blue dresses tucked up for pockets. Camels in a long string stalk over the plain, all cotton-laden. The English Vice-Consul at Mansourah was kind and hospitable, and he already knew the Rob Roy well by name.
