was entitled. Whilst she was there, a closed carriage drove up. The eunuch on the box got down, seized the girl, hustled her into the carriage and drove off with her to the house of her late master. I called on him upon the following morning and requested that the girl should be given up to me again. He replied that this was quite impossible. I rejoined that unless the girl was delivered at my house within twenty-four hours he could no longer remain Minister of Justice. Accordingly, the following morning the girl came, accompanied by an older woman. By that time I spoke Turkish fairly well and was able to cross-examine her without the intervention of an interpreter. I asked her whether she wished to go back to the harem. She asked, in reply, whether, if she went to the Home, she would be obliged to stay there. I told her, of course, that she was at perfect liberty to do anything she pleased. She then expressed a wish to go to the Home. I then called in the woman who had accompanied her and made her repeat what she had said to me. The older woman was in a furious rage and reproached her with having promised to return to the harem. The girl replied that she had done so in order to make her escape easier, but that she had no sort of intention of fulfilling her promise. She was then taken in my carriage to the Home. She disappeared in a few days, and I do not doubt that some admirer was lurking in the background to receive her.

I have occasionally heard it stated in connexion with some European whom it was proposed to employ in the East that the appointment would be singularly suitable because the individual in question was so like an Eastern himself.' There cannot be a greater mistake. The European who endeavours to meet Eastern intrigue with counter-intrigue is doomed to failure. The qualities most required for dealing successfully with Eastern affairs are absolute honesty and straightforwardness, great patience, a careful abstention from the extremes either of effusive friendship on the one hand or want of courtesy on the other, and occasionally careful attention to small points of detail which often loom larger in the eyes of Easterns than in those of Westerns. As regards the latter point, I may mention one or two instances within my own

experience where very trifling actions produced results out of proportion to their intrinsic importance.

When the question arose of a Firman being issued for the Khedive Abbas Hilmi, strong suspicions were entertained that the then reigning Sultan would introduce changes of a very objectionable nature. He promised, however, that the text of the Firman should be communicated to the British Embassy at Constantinople before it was promulgated. A special emissary was despatched from Constantinople with the Firman. He arrived at Alexandria one morning and almost simultaneously I received a telegram from the Constantinople Embassy giving the text of the Firman. My worst suspicions were confirmed. The Sultan had taken the opportunity to include in Turkish territory a large slice of the Sinai Peninsula. In fact, Turkish rule would have extended to the Canal immediately opposite Suez. It was quite out of the question that this proposal should be accepted. All the preparations had been made for reading the Firman. The square in front of the Abdin Palace, where the ceremony was to take place, was decorated with flags, the troops had been ordered out and all the important functionaries of the State had been summoned. Immediately I received the telegram I caused all the orders to be cancelled and intimated that until the Firman was changed it could not be promulgated. Cairo was seething with excitement. Everyone asked what was going to happen. My very able secretary, Mr (now Sir Arthur) Hardinge, then suggested to me that I should put on a white suit of flannels and ostentatiously play a game of tennis in the most public place I could find. I acted on the advice, with the result that, inasmuch as my proceedings were at once reported everywhere, public opinion was much calmed. On the following morning, a telegram arrived from Constantinople cancelling the objectionable portions of the Firman.

On another occasion, when my relations with the Khedive (Abbas Hilmi) were a good deal strained, information reached me that there was to be a grand demonstration at the theatre in favour of the Khedive, which would take a turn very hostile to the British. I put on the star and ribbon of the Medjidieh and attended the theatre myself. When the Khedive entered, the

Khedivial hymn was played and I stood up conspicuously in front of my box. No demonstration ensued.

I may perhaps close this somewhat discursive article by mentioning one or two curious incidents connected with diplomatic action in the East. When, in 1884, the British Government decided to enforce the withdrawal of the Egyptian troops from the Soudan, the ministry of Cherif Pasha resigned. The course proposed was eminently judicious but was extremely unpopular in Egypt. I had received instructions to avoid by all possible means the appointment of British Ministers, and I do not doubt that the Egyptians themselves had some inkling of the reluctance of the British Government of the day to adopt so heroic a remedy. I felt convinced that the best way to carry out my instructions was not to give any hint that British Ministers would not be appointed, but, on the contrary, to intimate the extreme probability of their appointment. There was reason to suppose that I should be told that no Egyptians would undertake the responsibility of office in order to carry out the Soudan policy of the British Government. It was thought that it would, therefore, be necessary to recall Cherif Pasha to power. At the height of the crisis, Mr Moberly Bell, who was then Correspondent of the 'Times,' called upon me and informed me that he had been to the Palace to see the Khedive, Tewfik Pasha, and that the intention was as I have already mentioned. He asked me what I should then do. I replied that I should have no hesitation whatever as to how I should act; that I should go down to the Ministry and carry on the Government myself with the help of a few English officials whom I should appoint. I did not ask Mr Moberly Bell either to repeat what I had stated or to maintain silence. The result, however, was that in a few hours I got a message to say that the Khedive entirely shared the views of the British Government on the subject of the Soudan policy, and that Nubar Pasha had consented to take office. The next day I asked Cherif Pasha, for whom I had a great personal regard, to dinner, and we parted the best of friends.

Here is another episode in the domain of that internationalism run mad which was at one time the curse of the Egyptian Government. When I arrived at Cairo

in 1883, international interference was increasing in every direction. Constant meetings of the Diplomatic Corps took place with a view to settling what were really purely Egyptian questions. I had no wish whatever to encourage internationalism. However, I consented to attend a meeting which had been summoned to consider the question of the Port dues levied at Alexandria. All the representatives of the Powers were evidently animated by a spirit of hostility to the British Government, and stated their views at some length. There were occasional long pauses in the discussion in order to give me an opportunity of stating what I had to say. I maintained absolute silence, but, after smoking a great many cigarettes, got up at the end of more than an hour and said that we had had a very interesting discussion, and that it was now time to go to luncheon. No more meetings of this kind took place.

To sum up, it is the contrast between East and West rather than their similarity which constitutes the great attraction of Eastern politics. No European can really deal effectively with Eastern affairs unless he has sufficient powers of observation to notice these contrasts in small things as well as in great, and sufficient imagination to realise their consequences. The display of sympathy in dealing with Easterns is certainly a very necessary quality; so also is the extension of indulgence to what in Western eyes appear at times defects. The power of appreciating the humorous side of Eastern affairs is also not amiss. A dismissed Egyptian official, who was apparently possessed with a desire to express his views in highly idiomatic English, once wrote to me: 'Oh, Hell! Lordship's face grow red if he know quite beastly behaviour of Public Works Department towards his humble servant.' The extent to which the East will be improved by being occidentalised to a greater extent than at present may be a matter of opinion, but it is quite certain that the further this process is carried the less interesting will Eastern affairs become.

CROMER.

Art. 3.-THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIUS.

1. The Tragedy of Pompey the Great. By John Masefield. Sidgwick and Jackson, 1910.

2. Les Sources de Lucain. By René Pichon. Paris: Leroux, 1912.

3. Lucanus de Bello Civili; Tertium edidit C. Hosius. Leipzig: Teubner, 1913.

THE fickleness of an all-controlling Fortune was ever present to the ancients; and there was nothing in all Rome's chequered history that impressed it so deeply on the Roman mind as the piteous death and downfall of the puissant soldier upon whom, as the peer of Alexander of Macedon, the partial judgment of his countrymen had bestowed the name of Great.' To this not only Juvenal in the well-known passage (Satire x, 283 foll.), but Propertius, Pliny, Seneca and others make frequent and impressive reference. Nor has it lost its interest now. Of this the popularity of Mr Masefield's drama, now we believe in its third edition, is evidence enough.

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Mr Masefield's title is chosen well. The end of Pompey may be rightly called a 'tragedy,' not in the ignoble sense of current usage, which would apply it to the fate of some defaulting financier who cuts his throat and leaves his family to pay the price of his sin, but as the expression of a catastrophe that might fitly have engaged the genius of an Eschylus, a Sophocles or a Shakespeare -the fall of an Agamemnon, an Edipus or a Lear. And be it here observed that in tragedy pure and simple, the character of the victim is something in the main indifferent. He must not indeed be despicable, but he need be neither virtuous nor capable. The impious vainglory of Agamemnon, the blind self-will of Edipus, the sheer fatuity of Lear, seem in truth temptations to Providence. And when the bard of Alexander's Feast sings Darius, great and good, . . . Fallen from his high estate,' his aim is avowedly a different one. He seeks 'soft pity to infuse.' Virgil, it has long been noted, in an arresting passage (Eneid, II, 557 foll.) had the end of our Roman conqueror before him when he pictured the Trojan monarch stretched headless on the sand. But the Priam of tradition is but a lay figure of a man; and