ON

Old Caira and its Mosque.

NE of the most agreeable places in Egypt is old Cairo, either to pass through, or to reside in. After jogging through a mile or two of narrow bustling streets, with tall houses and balconies jealously excluding the sun, and leaving the sacred precincts of Sitti Zeyneb behind, you emerge suddenly behind. rubbish-mounds and villages into full view of the great aqueduct, winding down on your left to the river's edge. The sun beats, and the wind blows clouds of dust; donkeys laden with burseem, camels, and—such is the progress of civilisation-water-carts, pour along in unbroken succession; women scream, and men roar, and beggars importune. Luckily the navigation is short. You go round the head of the aqueduct, and suddenly find yourself in the nicest little street you can imagine, the entrance shaded by trees, and the distant vista prolonged by trees-the houses small and quiet-looking, with flowers in the windows and pretty faces at the doors-nothing but the costume to tell you that you are not in a tranquil village in England.

A little farther the scene changes-you are almost out in the country again; and the breaks between the houses and the trees on the right, show the rapid narrow channel of the Nile, that runs between you and Rhoda Island, where a succession of palm-groves and white palaces, with romantic-looking landing stairs, shaded by some drooping sycamore, strongly remind one of many scenes in the "Arabian Nights." In the other direction, the gigantic

tapering minarets of the new Mosque on the citadel constantly reappear as you ride along.

But the street closes in again, and assumes a different character. Large walled gardens, within which one can occasionally distinguish corners or pinnacles of mysterious-looking houses embowered in trees; court-yards devoted to business, and containing huge mountains of grain or of chopped straw; boat builders' stations, and all the signs of a commercial place, soon begin to appear. And then you get into a bazaar or street of shops; and then into the market place, from near which the ferry-boats start for Gizeh and the Pyramids; and then into another bazaar, and to the neighbourhood of the Custom-house, where first this huge by-street makes a bend, and after going through a neighbourhood principally devoted to private houses and gardens, becomes at length a country road, leading out to the Attar-En-Nebbi or Prophets' Footstep.

What I have thus endeavored to describe, is almost the only aspect of old Cairo which visitors usually witness; and indeed there are many parts of the place which it is not easy to see, unless you go with a very positive determination to do so. If you turn off from the great street in any other direction but the real bazaar, you are instantly assailed by the information, generally vouchsafed by old women and children, that there is no thoroughfare; you turn, and twist, and wind, and generally come back to the place from which you started, after having passed through a variety of narrow lanes, and ventured into twenty blind alleys. The town, in fact, is divided into quarters, each with its separate gate, and each inhabited, no doubt, by a kind of class of people— the relics, probably, of the original population that settled here in the time of Amer-ibn-el-As, some twelve hundred years ago. It is

impossible to imagine anything more quiet than these quarters, without being dismal. For, although the light of the sun is generally shut out, yet here and there a few bright beams find their way down upon some carved projecting window, or into some little square, where perhaps a single palm-tree bends gracefully over, and throws a small patch of shadow upon some snug corner, where two or three children gracefully sit, and look in unfeigned astonishment at the intruder in another costume and of another faith.

The bazaar is in itself tolerably well stocked, although many shops are closed. A certain bustle prevails, because boatmen and country people often come there to buy; but the manners of the place seem a century behind those of Cairo. The dealers are more grave, and more impressed with the importance of their social position, and, without being in the slightest degree rude, evidently regard a Frank as an object of curiosity. There they sit, pipe in hand, calmly waiting for customers, generally in silence, sometimes talking with neighbours over the way; but all with a decent gravity quite delightful to behold.

There are a good many other things to see and notice in and about the strange old decayed city, as the fortified convent where the Chamber of the Virgin is shown; but the most curious object is the Mosque of Amer, that stands on the eastern side. I went one day to visit it, in company with a devout Arab. It stands almost alone amidst dusty mounds, and a few hovels. There is nothing very remarkable in its exterior appearance, which presents nothing but long, littering, dead walls. On entering the narrow gate, however, it is impossible not to be struck with the effect of an immense square court, surrounded by vast colonnades, with

plain round arches of simple grandeur. An octagonal building in the centre, containing a well, improves the general effect. We were first conducted to the Pillar of Purity-that is to say, two marble columns, placed so close together that only a spare man can squeeze through. In old times it was esteemed that none but good and true Moslems—and yet all of these could pass between. When such a standard was chosen, not very long after the Prophet had promulgated his faith-few indeed, must have been the specimens of bulky orthodoxy, such as we have so often met with parading the streets, fluttering in their ample silk robes. At present, it is believed the columns are still a test of remarkable purity; and my corpulent companion sighed as he acknowledged the absolute impossibility of his succeeding in an attempt which was easy to me. A hideous old lady, who played the part of cicerone, repeatedly excited him to prove his freedom from sin; but even to ascend the steps would have been to him a difficult operation; and he sadly renounced all claim to be considered one of the " very righteous.”

The old lady was a capital and original guide—not original, however, in her eagerness to hurry us from one point of interest to the other. She led us along the vast colonnades, telling us, with rare faith, that the true believers would be trampled under foot by the heathen whenever the most sacred Mosque fell into decay; and it really requires some such persuasion to excuse the tasteless reparations which have recently been made at various points. After permitting us to peep into a small cell containing the tomb of the founder of the Mosque, she took us through a perfect forest of columns to one particular one, up to which she ran, and, slapping it triumphantly, cried, "Look there!" She had evidently reached what, to her, was the most interesting spot

of the whole. I could at first see nothing at all remarkable; but, at closer examination, found that the column was slightly depressed, and stained with a greenish colour, and that there was a crack across it. I learned that the impression was caused by a slap from the hand of the Prophet himself; and the crack by a blow from his Koorbash. My companion, to whom I observed, that, as far as I knew, Mohammed had never been in Egypt, was a little puzzled and shaken in his faith, and he admitted that there were many suppositious relics; but, on reflection, his doubts were satisfied. "See," quoth he, "here is the proof you require; all the genuine marks of the Prophet are of a green colour; this stone is green; therefore--" The conclusion was irresistible; and I was told that the Great Rasail's Footstep in the Mosque to the south of Old Cairo is

also green.

I have seen it somewhere remarked, that Moslems do not look with reverence upon antique monuments of their faith. This,, however, is not so. I have never known greater respect paid to ancient buildings than is paid to their mosques by the Egyptians. It is true they despise every thing else that is old; and feel a pleasure in demolishing the relics of the unblessed Kafrs, who preceded them. In breaking them, they seem to feel all the pleasures of a contest with supernatural power; for they firmly believe that the huge stones with which the ancient piles that we respect are built, were not raised with human arms, but by the influence of spells and talismans. When, in spite of an opportunity, they refrain from destruction, it is in the belief that they may bring down the vengeance of accursed spirits upon themselves. It is another article of their faith, that the ruins contain hidden treasures, and so firm is their conviction, that every relic of ancient