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ing picture in combination with the old tamarisk tree that grows crookedly out of the pavement of the court, and I hastened to unlimber the camera with the view of making them immortal. It was a fatal thought. The children scampered away with loud squeals, — in terror, I suppose, of some sort of evil eye, -and their teacher, or sheik, or whoever he was, huddled them quickly into a dark and cavernous schoolroom, even as a hen gathers her chickens under her wings. Thereafter we had the spacious courts and deep side chapels of Barkuk to ourselves.
Here, too, are modest tombs, sacred to the memory of Barkuk and his sons, resembling raised platforms more than anything else. But the chief attraction, apart from the general appearance of the whole building, is a magnificently carved pulpit and a deep, inlaid prayer niche in the eastern liwan. Carved stone pulpits like this — simply a lofty platform at the top of an imposing flight of steps — are common in all Cairo mosques, and I suppose in mosques everywhere. But few are finer than this in Barkuk's spacious halls, and it will serve admirably as a type of Moslem church furniture.
Taken as a whole, there is no more thoroughly satisfying prospect in all Cairo than this little isolated group of tombs, a cluster of yellow mosques, backed by yellow cliffs, and rising out of yellow sands,
against that marvelous sky, before which dance back and forth the multitude of picturesque spinners at their toil. This at least seems like what we have imagined the Orient to be, in coloring, in shape, in attribute. Maxfield Parrish would delight in it.
The bit of desert in which these tombs lie runs along the whole eastern edge of the city, narrowing as it nears the projecting foothill on which the Citadel is set, until it becomes a mere ribbon, and is finally lost in the sharp uprising of the Citadel road. Just to the east and along the whole distance tower the cliffs of the Mokhattam, marking the verge of the Arabian Desert proper. Their height and their proximity to the town long ago rendered the Citadel quite worthless as a fort; for any artillery, however primitive, must from the superior cliffs make but short work of the ancient keep below, and would speedily lay in ruin the magnificent mosque of Mohammed Ali, depriving Cairo of its most picturesque and conspicuous adornment. Naturally it is from the top of the Mokhattam that one obtains the very best view of Cairo
and common consent decrees it the finest view in all Egypt.
By all means combine the visit to the Mokhattam with your second inspection of the Citadel, rather than with the jaunt to the outlying tombs of the Caliphs. It is far less fatiguing. A donkey for the
entire journey can be had for a shilling in the little square where the tram line ends; and it is well to have a donkey, as the way is not only steep, but in places intolerably dusty. Suffer yourself to be shown once more, in passing, the tomb of Mohammed Ali, the scene of the Mameluke massacre, the view from the parapet, and even “ Joseph's Well” – which had, of course, nothing to do with the Biblical Joseph. And when you have passed the latter, surrender yourself to the tender mercies of your guide and the donkey to be carried out of the Citadel by a postern gate, down an appallingly steep and stony path to a ravine, the bottom of which is a soft and dusty crease in the face of the desert. In due time - it is not far- you will come to a sharp ascent along a causeway which leads directly to the top of the cliffs. Parts of it have fallen away, so that it is no longer possible to ride all the distance; but the walk is brief, and when you attain finally the top, the prospect on every hand is so magnificent that you will thank me for urging you to come. If possible, remain until sunset, which is generally dependable to be a gorgeous exhibition.
Cairo lies at your feet, and for the first time you appreciate its vast extent. The Citadel just beneath looks rather like a toy. Beyond it spreads the huddled mass of the city buildings, an inundation of humanity and all its works overflowing the broad