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which neither Hildebrand nor Holman Hunt has been able to depict. Often as the “after-glow” has been described there is probably no better short, graphic description than this, “With the drawing on of evening, a glory of colour comes out in the light of the setting sun; purple shadows are cast by the mountains; the reds and greys of sandstone, granite, and limestone cliffs blend exquisitely with the tawny yellow of the desert, the rich green of the banks, and the blue of the river. The cold grey twilight follows immediately upon sunset—but in a few minutes there is a marvellous change. The earth and sky are suffused with a delicate pink tinge, known as the after-glow '-fairy-like

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and magical. The peculiarity of Egyptian over all other sunsets is that light and colour return after an interval of ashy grey, like the coming back of life to a corpse.” It seems sometimes as if the rich pink and gold colour flooding the landscape could be touched, or as an American said to the writer when standing together one night on the Citadel, “I believe if I were to wave a white towel through the air it would come down like a seam of Joseph's coat.”

If the reader can imagine the “after-glow,” let him now look out from the Citadel and take in this view. Immediately below is Cairo, with its wonderful buildings, its minarets, its squares, its splendour, and its feathery palm-clumps ; close at our feet are the tombs of the Mamelukes, rounded mausoleums, picturesquely studding the plain. Stretching away till it is lost in the haze of distance is the valley of Egypt, through which winds the grand

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old Nile, dotted with sails that flash in the sun and closed on either side by the irregular ranges of the Libyan and Arabian hills. Eight or nine miles beyond the river stand the Great Pyramids of Ghizeh ; farther along the burning line of sand are the pyramids of Sakkarah; and farther still, phaộtom-like in the red background of the Libyan desert, the pyramids of Abouseir.

The city and the tombs, the river and the desert, imaging forth life and death in perpetual contrast; and over all the unchangeable blue of the sky, and in and through all is the dazzling glory of sunset !

On the terrace of the Citadel is the Mosque of Mohammed Ali—the Alabaster Mosque -highly ornate, loaded with rich ornamentation, but in wretched taste and lacking any attempt at religious idealism. The minarets alone represent any thought of the Infinite. Near the entrance to the mosque is the tomb of Mohammed Ali.

Immediately below this monstrous monument of Turkish taste is the Mosque of Sultan Hassan, the finest existing monument of Arabian architecture, full of simplicity and beauty. Incredible as it may appear, while

, fabulous sums have been expended upon the Mosque of Mohammed Ali-which has been likened to a French Alhambra—the Mosque of Sultan Hassan, contemporary with our Westminster Abbey, and in some respects comparable with it, has been allowed to fall into hopeless decay ; its exquisite fretwork of precious inlays is dropping from the walls, the roof of the central kiosk is stripped off in great patches, the beautiful Syrian lamps have all gone, and the whole is in neglect and dilapidation. The old and the new in Egyptian taste are well illustrated in these two monuments. Everywhere are tinsel and veneer ; showy and bastard buildings taking the place of the simple, solid, and beautiful.

There are other interesting buildings and sites on the Citadel, the Well of Joseph for example, which the dragomans always point out to visitors as the pit into which the patriarch Joseph was put by his brethren, but which is really named after Saladin (his name was Youssef or “ Joseph ”), who discovered the pit or well when the Citadel was being built in the twelfth century. But the spot most interesting is the narrow lane leading from the gate, Bab el Azab, where the massacre of the Mamelukes took place by order of Mohammed Ali on the 1st of March, 1811. Soon after he had been confirmed by the Porte in the Viceroyalty of Egypt," he summoned the Mameluke Beys to a consultation on the approaching war against the Wahabees in Arabia. As his son Toussoun had been invested with the dignity of Pasha of the second order, the occasion was one of festivity as well as business. The Beys came, mounted on their finest horses, in magnificent uniforms, forming the most superb cavalry in the world. After a very flattering reception from the Pasha, they were requested to parade in the court of the Citadel. They entered




the fortress unsuspectingly—the portcullis fell behind the last of the proud procession; a moment's glance revealed to them their doom ; they dashed forwards—in vain !—before, behind, around them, nothing was visible but blank, pitiless walls and barred windows; the only opening was towards the bright blue sky; even that was soon darkened by their funeral pile of smoke, as volley after volley flashed from a thousand muskets behind the ramparts upon their defenceless and devoted band. Startling and fearfully sudden as was their death, they met it as became their fearless character-some with arms crossed upon their mailed bosoms and turbaned heads devoutly bowed in prayer; some with flashing swords and fierce curses, alike unavailing, against their dastard and ruthless foe. All that chivalrous and splendid throng, save one, sank rapidly beneath the deadly fire into a red and writhing mass—that one was Emim Bey. He spurred his charger over a heap of his slaughtered comrades and sprang upon the battlements. It was a dizzy height, but the next moment he was in the air-another, and he was disengaging himself from his crushed and dying horse amid a shower of bullets. He escaped, and found safety in the sanctuary of a mosque, and ultimately in the deserts of the Thebaid." *

The Bazaars of Cairo are thoroughly Oriental in character, and though inferior to those of either Constantinople or Damascus, are extremely interesting and a never-failing source of pleasure to the visitor. They are situated in a series of narrow lanes, with awnings high up, through which the bright light comes glittering down, while strips of azure sky may be seen between the coverings of richly-coloured carpets stretched across from the overhanging roofs. On market days-Mondays and Thursdays—the crowds are so great that it is extremely difficult to steer through the mazes and intricacies of these winding alleys, but it is well worth while to do so, for every step reveals some fresh phase of Oriental life and character. Every store displays its attractions in a specially fascinating manner, the articles on sale are so novel and curious in themselves, and are “set off” with tinsel, embroidery, wonderful colouring, and intense light, so that many things appear valuable which are on closer examination found to be of the commonest material and the coarsest texture.

As in most Eastern cities, the trades are grouped together, and each shop therefore vies with its neighbour in displaying all its most precious wares. There is the spice market redolent with rich odours, the spices of Araby and attar of roses ; the bazaar for wares from Tunis and Algiers, with drugs and woollen stuffs ; the pipe bazaar, with carved meerschaums and amber mouth-pieces, gorgeous chibouks, fantastic narghilies, and all the paraphernalia of the smoker; the shoe-makers' bazaar, with slippers worked in all manner of gold and silver embroidery and morocco dyed in marvellous colours—each group combining to produce an effect never equalled in the fanciful arrangement of any pantomime scene. At one place may be had handkerchiefs, keffiyehs, or shawls for the head, in many colours, with long rich fringes, and striped material of goat's wool or camel's hair; at another, carpets from Bagdad and Broussa ; now rows of shops may be seen filled with gold and silver and precious stones, and now with saddlery or embroidery, or pottery ware, whose graceful designs have been disinterred from tombs of incredible antiquity. And everywhere are noise and bustle and merriment, and at every stall sits some stolid old Turk or keen-eyed Copt, cross-legged and impassive, sipping coffee or whiffing Latakia while the crowd surges around his divan.

• Warburton,

“ The Crescent and the Cross."

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