sale, together with Manchester goods, by fat, ugly old women of
a forbidding aspect. Further on we come upon "confectioners." A
remarkable peculiarity of the tables on which the sweets are being
sold in front of us is the total absence of flies, though bees
abound, in spite of the lazy whisking of the sweet-seller. The sweets
themselves consist of red, yellow and white sticks of what Cousin
Jonathan calls "candy;" almond and gingelly rock, all frizzling in the
sun. A small basin, whose contents resemble a dark plum-pudding full
of seeds, contains a paste of the much-lauded hasheesh, the opiate of
Morocco, which, though contraband, and strictly prohibited by Imperial
decrees, is being freely purchased in small doses.

On the opposite side of the way some old Spaniards are selling a kind
of coiled-up fritter by the yard, swimming in oil. Then we come to a
native restaurant. Trade does not appear very brisk, so we shall not
interrupt it by pausing for a few moments to watch the cooking. In a
tiny lean-to of sticks and thatch two men are at work. One is cutting
up liver and what would be flead if the Moors ate pigs, into pieces
about the size of a filbert. These the other threads on skewers in
alternate layers, three or four of each. Having rolled them in a basin
of pepper and salt, they are laid across an earthen pot resembling a
log scooped out, like some primæval boat. In the bottom of the hollow
is a charcoal fire, which causes the khotbán, as they are called, to
give forth a most appetizing odour--the only thing tempting about them
after seeing them made. Half loaves of native bread lie ready to hand,
and the hungry passer-by is invited to take an _al fresco_ meal for
the veriest trifle. Another sort of kabáb--for such is the name of
the preparation--is being made from a large wash-basin full of ready
seasoned minced meat, small handfuls of which the jovial _chef_
adroitly plasters on more skewers, cooking them like the others.