Yes，thereismuchtomakeonesadatPhilae。Buthowmuchofpurebeautythereisleft——ofbeautythatmerelyprotestsagainstanyfurtheroutrage！
　　AsthereissomethingepicinthegrandeuroftheLotusHallatKarnak，sothereissomethinglyricalinthesoftcharmofthePhilaetemple。Certainthingsorplaces，certainthingsincertainplaces，alwayssuggesttomymindcertainpeopleinwhosegeniusItakedelight——whohavewonme，andmovedmebytheirart。WheneverIgotoPhilae，thenameofShelleycomestome。Iscarcelycouldtellwhy。I
　　havenospecialreasontoconnectShelleywithPhilae。ButwhenIseethatalmostairylovelinessofstone，sosimplyelegant，so，somehow，spring-likeinitspale-coloredbeauty，itshappy，daffodilcharm，withitstouchoftheGreek——thesensitivehandfromAtticastretchedoutoverNubia——IalwaysthinkofShelley。IthinkofShelleytheyouthwhodiveddownintothepoolsodeepthatitseemedhewaslostforevertothesun。IthinkofShelleythepoet，fullofalyricecstasy，whowashimselflikeanembodied"LongingforsomethingafarFromthesphereofoursorrow。"
　　LyricalPhilaeislikeatempleofdreams，andofallpoetsShelleymighthavedreamedthedreamandhavetoldittotheworldinasong。
　　Forallitssolidity，thereareastrangelightnessandgraceinthetempleofPhilae;thereisaneleganceyouwillnotfindintheothertemplesofEgypt。Butitisanelegancequiteundefiledbyweakness，byanysentimentality。（Evenabuilding，likealove-lornmaid，canbesentimental。）EdwardFitzGeraldoncedefinedtasteasthefeminineofgenius。TasteprevailsinPhilae，acertaindeliciousfemininitythatseducestheeyesandtheheartofman。ShallwecallitthespiritofIsis？
　　IhaveheardaclevercriticandantiquariandeclarethatheisnotveryfondofPhilae;thathefeelsacertain"spuriousness"inthetempleduetotheminglingofGreekwithEgyptianinfluences。Hemayberight。Iamnoantiquarian，and，asamereloverofbeauty，Idonotfeelthis"spuriousness。"Icanseeneithertwoquarrellingstrengthsnoranyweaknesscausedbydivision。IsupposeIseeonlythebeauty，asImightseeonlythebeautyofawomenbredofahandsomefatherandmotherofdifferentraces，andwho，nottypicalofeither，combinedinherfeaturesandfiguredistinguishingmeritsofboth。Itistruethatthereisaparticularpleasurewhichisrousedinusonlybytheabsolutelytypical——thecompletelythoroughbredpersonorthing。Itmaybeapleasurenotcausedbybeauty，anditmaybeverykeen，nevertheless。Whenitiscombinedwiththejoyrousedinusbyallbeauty，itisaverypureemotionofexceptionaldelight。
　　Philaedoesnot，perhaps，givethisemotion。Butitcertainlyhasalovablenessthatattachestheheartinaquitesingulardegree。ThePhilae-loveristhemostfaithfuloflovers。Theholdofhismistressuponhim，onceithasbeenfelt，isneverrelaxed。AndinhisaffectionforPhilaethereis，Ithink，nearlyalwaysarainbowstrainofromance。
　　Whenweloveanything，welovetobeabletosayoftheobjectofourdevotion，"Thereisnothinglikeit。"Now，inallEgypt，andIsupposeinalltheworldthereisnothingjustlikePhilae。Therearetemples，yes;butwhereelseisthereabouquetofgraciousbuildingssuchasthesegatheredinsuchaholderasthistiny，raft-likeisle？Andwhereelsearejustsuchdelicateand，asIhavesaid，lightandalmostfeminineeleganceandcharmsetinthemidstofsuchseveresterility？Once，beyondPhilae，thegreatCataractroareddownfromthewastesofNubiaintothegreenfertilityofUpperEgypt。Itroarsnolonger。Butstillthemassesoftherocks，andstilltheamberandtheyellowsands，andstilltheiron-coloredhills，keepguardroundPhilae。Andstill，despitethevulgardesecrationthathasturnedShellalintoaworkmen’ssuburbanddowereditwitharailway-station，thereisamysteryinPhilae，andthesenseofisolationthatonlyanislandgives。EvennowonecanforgetinPhilae——forget，afterawhile，andincertainpartsofitsbuildings，thepresenceofthegreydisease;forgetthethreateningofthealtruists，whodesiretobenefithumanitybyclearingasmuchbeautyoutofhumanity’sabiding-
　　placeaspossible;forgetthefactoftherailway，exceptwhentheshriekoftheenginefloatsoverthewatertoone’sears;forgeteconomicproblems，andthedestructionthattheirsolvingbringsuponthesilentworldofthingswhose"use，"denied，unrecognized，orlaughedat，tomanisintheirholybeauty，whosemissionliesnotuponthebroadhighwayswheretrampsthehungrybody，butuponthesecret，shadowybywayswhereglidesthehungrysoul。
　　Yes，onecanforgetevennowinthehallofthetempleofIsis，wherethecapriciousgracesofcolor，where，likeoldanddeliciousmusicinthegoldenstringsofaharp，dwellsasomething——whatisit？A
　　murmur，oraperfume，orabreathing？——ofoldandvanishedyearswhenforsakengodswereworshipped。AndonecanforgetinthechapelofHathor，onwhosewalllittleHorusisborn，andinthegreyhounds’
　　chapelbesideit。Onecanforget，foronewalksinbeauty。
　　LovelyarethedoorwaysinPhilae，enticingaretheshallowstepsthatleadoneonwardandupward;gracioustheyellowtowersthatseemtosmileaquietwelcome。Andthereisonechamberthatissimplyaplaceofmagic——thehalloftheflowers。
　　ItisthischamberwhichalwaysmakesmethinkofPhilaeasalovelytempleofdreams，thissilent，retiredchamber，wheresomefabledprincessmightwellhavebeentouchedtoalong，longsleepofenchantment，andlainforyearsuponyearsamongthemagicalflowers——
　　thelotus，andthepalm，andthepapyrus。
　　Inmyyouthitmadeuponmeanindelibleimpression。Throughinterveningyears，filledwithmanynewimpressions，manywanderings，manyvisionsofbeautyinotherlands，thatretired，paintedchamberhadnotfadedfrommymind——orshallIsayfrommyheart？Therehadseemedtomewithinitsomethingthatwasineffable，asinalyricofShelley’sthereissomethingthatisineffable，orincertainpicturesofBoecklin，suchas"TheVillabytheSea。"Andwhenatlast，almostafraidandhesitating，Icameintoitoncemore，Ifoundinitagainthestrangespellofoldenchantment。
　　Itseemsasifthischamberhadbeenimaginedbyapoet，whohadsetitinthecentreofthetempleofhisdreams。Itissuchaspontaneouschamberthatonecanscarcelyimagineitmorethanadayandanightinthebuilding。Yetindetailitislovely;itisfinishedandstrangelymighty;itisalyricinstone，themostpoeticalchamber，perhaps，inthewholeofEgypt。ForPhilaeIcountinEgypt，thoughreallyitisinNubia。
　　OnewhohasnotseenPhilaemayperhapswonderhowatallchamberofsolidstone，containingheavyandsoaringcolumns，canbelikealyricofShelley’s，canbeexquisitelyspontaneous，andyetholdasomethingofmysterythatmakesonetreadsoftlyinit，andfeartodisturbwithinitsomelovelysleeperofNubia，somePrincessoftheNile。Hemustcontinuetowonder。Todescribethischambercalmly，asImight，forinstance，describethetempleofDerr，wouldbesimplytodestroyit。Forthingsineffablecannotbefullyexplained，ornotbefullyfeltbythosethetwilightofwhosedreamsisfittedtominglewiththeirtwilight。Theywhoaremeanttolovewithardor/sepassionnentpourlapassion/。Andtheywhoaremeanttotakeandtokeepthespiritofadream，whetheritbehiddeninapoem，orheldinthecupofaflower，orenfoldedinarmsofstone，willsurelynevermissit，eventhoughtheycanhearroaringloudlyaboveitselfinvoicethecryofdirectedwatersrushingdowntoUpperEgypt。
　　Howcanonedisentanglefromtheirtapestrywebthedifferentthreadsofaspell？Andevenifonecould，ifonecouldholdthemup，andexplain，"Thecauseofthespellisthatthiscomesincontactwiththis，andthatthis，whichIshowyou，blendswith，fadesinto，this，"
　　howcoulditadvantageanyone？Nothingcouldbemadeclearer，nothingbereallyexplained。Theineffableis，andmusteverremain，somethingremoteandmysterious。
　　AndsoonemaysaymanythingsofthispaintedchamberofPhilae，andyetneverconvey，perhapsneverreallyknow，theinnermostcauseofitscharm。Initthereisobviousbeautyofform，andaseizingbeautyofcolor，beautyofsunlightandshadow，ofantiqueassociation。Thisturquoiseblueisenchanting，andIsiswasworshippedhere。Whathastheonetodowiththeother？Nothing;andyethowmuch！Forisnoteachofthesefactsathreadinthetapestrywebofthespell？Theeyesseetheraptureofthisveryperfectblue。Theimaginationhears，asifveryfaroff，thesolemnchantingofpriestsandsmellsthesmokeofstrangeperfumes，andseesthelong，aquilinenoseandthethin，haughtylipsofthegoddess。Andthecolorbecomesstrangetotheeyesaswellasverylovely，because，perhaps，itwasthere——italmostcertainlywasthere——whenfromConstantinoplewentforththedecreethatallEgyptshouldbeChristian;whenthepriestsofthesacredbrotherhoodofIsisweredrivenfromtheirtemple。
　　IsisnursingHorusgavewaytotheVirginandtheChild。Butthecyclesspinawaydown"theringinggroovesofchange。"FromEgypthaspassedawaythatdecreedChristianity。Nowfromtheminaretthemuezzincries，andinpalm-shadedvillagesIheartheloudhymnsofearnestpilgrimsstartingonthejourneytoMecca。Andeverthispaintedchambersheltersitsmysteryofpoetry，itsmysteryofcharm。
　　Andstillitsmarvellouscolorsarefreshasinthefar-offpagandays，andtheopeninglotus-flowers，andtheclosedlotus-buds，andthepalmandthepapyrus，areontheperfectcolumns。Andtheirintrinsicloveliness，andtheirfreshness，andtheirage，andthemysteriestheyhavelookedon——allthesefactsarepartofthespellthatgovernsusto-day。InEdfuoneisenclosedinawonderfulausterity。Andonecanonlyworship。InPhilaeoneiswrappedinaradianceofcolorandonecanonlydream。Forthereiscoral-pink，andthereawonderfulgreen，"likethegreenlightthatlingersinthewest，"andthereisablueasdeepastheblueofatropicalsea;andtherearegreen-blueandlustrous，ardentred。Andtheoddfantasyinthecoloring，isnotthatlikethefantasyinthetempleofadream？
　　ForthosewhopaintedthesecapitalsforthegreatergloryofIsisdidnotfeartodepartfromnature，andtotheirpatientworshipabluepalmperhapsseemedararelysacredthing。Andthatpalmispartofthespell，andthereliefsuponthewallsandeventheCopticcrossesthatarecutintothestone。
　　Butattheend，onecanonlysaythatthisplaceisindescribable，andnotbecauseitiscomplexorterrificallygrand，likeKarnak。Gotoitonasunlitmorning，orstandinitinlateafternoon，andperhapsyouwillfeelthatit"suggests"you，andthatitcarriesyouaway，outoffamiliarregionsintoalandofdreams，whereamonghiddenwaysthesoulislostinmagic。Yes，youaregone。
　　Totheright——forone，alas！cannotliveinadreamforever——isalovelydoorwaythroughwhichoneseestheriver。Facingitisanotherdoorway，showingafragmentofthepoor，vivisectedisland，someruinedwalls，andstillanotherdoorwayinwhich，again，isframedtheNile。ManypeoplehavecuttheirnamesuponthewallsofPhilae。Once，asIsatalonethere，Ifeltstronglyattractedtolookupwardtoawall，asifsomepersonality，enshrinedwithinthestone，werewatchingme，orcalling。Ilooked，andsawwritten"Balzac。"
　　PhilaeisthelasttemplethatonevisitsbeforehegiveshimselftothewildnessofthesolitudesofNubia。Itstandsattheveryfrontier。AsonegoesuptheNile，itislikeasmilingadieufromtheEgyptoneisleaving。Asonecomesdown，itislikeasmilingwelcome。
　　InitsdelicatecharmIfeelsomethingofthecharmoftheEgyptiancharacter。Therearemoments，indeed，whenIidentifyEgyptwithPhilae。ForinPhilaeonemustdream;andontheNile，too，onemustdream。Andalwaysthedreamishappy，andshotthroughwithradiantlight——lightthatisasradiantasthecolorsinPhilae’stemple。ThepylonsofPtolemysmileatyouasyougouporcomedowntheriver。
　　AndthepeopleofEgyptsmileastheyenterintoyourdream。A
　　suavity，too，istheirs。Ithinkofthemoftenasartists，whoknowtheirpartsinthedream-play，whoknowexactlytheirfunction，andhowtofulfilitrightly。Theysing，whileyouaredreaming，butitisanunder-song，likethemurmurofanEasternriverfarofffromanysea。Itneverdisturbs，thismusic，butithelpsyouinyourdream。
　　Andtheyaresoftlygay。Andintheireyesthereisoftenthegleamofsunshine，fortheyarethechildren——butnotgrownmen——ofthesun。
　　That，indeed，isoneofthemanystrangethingsinEgypt——theyouthfulnessofitsage，thechildlikenessofitsalmostterribleantiquity。Onegoestheretolookattheoldestthingsintheworldandtofeelperpetuallyyoung——youngasPhilaeisyoung，asalyricofShelley’sisyoung，asallofourday-dreamsareyoung，asthepeopleofEgyptareyoung。
　　Oh，thatEgyptcouldbekeptasitis，evenasitisnow;thatPhilaecouldbepreservedevenasitisnow！Thespoilersarethere，thoseblithemodernspirits，sofrightfullycleverandcapable，soindustrious，sodetermined，sounsparingofthemselvesand——ofothers！
　　Alreadytheyareatwork"benefitingEgypt。"TallchimneysbegintovomitsmokealongtheNile。Adamnabletram-lineforlittletrolleysleadsonetowardthewonderfulcolossiofMemnon。ClosetoKomOmbossomesoulimbuedwithromancehashadtheinspirationtosetup——afactory！AndPhilae——isittogo？
　　Isbeautythenofnovalueintheworld？Isitalwaystobethepreyofmodernprogress？Isnothingtobeconsideredsacred;nothingtobeleftuntouched，unsmirchedbythegrimyfingersofimprovement？I
　　supposenothing。
　　ThenletthosewhostillcaretodreamgonowtoPhilae’spaintedchamberbythelongreachesoftheNile;goon，iftheywill，tothegiantformsofAbu-SimbelamongtheNubiansands。Andperhapstheywillthinkwithme，thatinsomedreamsthereisavaluegreaterthanthevaluethatisenteredinanybank-book，andtheywillsay，withme，howeveruselessly：
　　"Leavetotheworldsomedreams，someplacesinwhichtodream;forifitneedsdamstomakethegraingrowinthestretchesoflandthatwerebarren，andrailwaysandtram-lines，andfactorychimneysthatvomitblacksmokeinthefaceofthesun，surelyitneedsalsopaintedchambersofPhilaeandthesilencethatcomesdownfromIsis。"
　　XVIII
　　OLDCAIRO
　　ByOldCairoIdonotmeanonly/levieuxCaire/oftheguide-book，thelittle，desolatevillagecontainingthefamousCopticchurchofAbuSergius，inthecryptofwhichtheVirginMaryandChristaresaidtohavestayedwhentheyfledtothelandofEgypttoescapethefuryofKingHerod;buttheCairothatisnotnew，thatisnotdedicatedwhollytoofficialdomandtourists，that，inthemidstofchangesandtheadvanceofcivilisation——civilisationthatdoessomuchharmaswellassomuchgood，thatshowersbenefitswithonehandanddefacesbeautywiththeother——preservesitsimmemorialcalmorimmemorialturmult;thatstandsaloof，asstandsaloofevertheEasternfromtheWesternman，eveninthemidstofwhatseems，perhaps，likeintimacy;
　　Easterntothesoul，thoughthefantasies，thepassions，thevulgarities，thebrilliantineptitudesoftheWestbeataboutitlikewavesaboutsomeunyieldingwallofthesea。
　　WhenIwentbacktoEgypt，afteralapseofmanyyears，IfledatoncefromCairo，anduponthelongreachesoftheNile，inthegreatspacesoftheLibyanDesert，intheluxuriantpalm-groovesoftheFayyum，amongthetamarisk-bushesandonthepalewatersofKurun，Iforgotthechangeswhich，inmybriefglimpseofthecityanditsenvirons，hadmovedmetodespondency。Butonecannotliveinthesolitudesforever。AndatlastfromMadi-nat-al-Fayyum，withthefirstpilgrimsstartingforMecca，Ireturnedtothegreatcity，determinedtoseekinitoncemoreforthefascinationsitusedtohold，andperhapsstillheldinthehiddenwayswheremodernfeet，nearlyalwaysinahurry，hadseldomtimetopenetrate。
　　Amisthungovertheland。Outofit，withasortofsternenergy，therecametomyearsloudhymnssungbythepilgrimvoices——hymnsinwhich，mingledwiththeenthusiasmofdevoteesenroutefortheholiestshrineoftheirfaith，thereseemedtosoundtheresolutionofmenstrunguptoconfrontthefatiguesandthedangersofagreatjourneythroughawildandunknowncountry。ThosehymnsledmyfeettothevenerablemosquesofCairo，thecityofmosques，guidedmeonmylesserpilgrimageamongthecupolasandthecolonnades，wheregravemendreaminthesilencenearmarblefountains，orbendmutteringtheirprayersbeneathdomesthataredimmedbytheruthlessfingersofTime。InthebuildingsconsecratedtoprayerandtomeditationIfirstsoughtforthemagicthatstilllurksintheteemingbosomofCairo。
　　LongasIhadsoughtitelsewhere，inthebrilliantbazaarsbyday，andbynightinthewindingalleys，wherethedark-eyedJewslookedstealthilyforthfromthelow-broweddoorways;wheretheCircassiangirlspromenade，gleamingwithgoldencoinsandbarbaricjewels;wheretheairisalivewithmusicthatisfeverishandantique，andinstrangelylightedinteriorsoneseesformscladinbrilliantdraperies，orseverelydrapedinthesimplestpale-bluegarments，movinginlanguiddances，flutteringpaintedfigures，bending，swaying，droppingdown，liketheformsthatpeopleadream。
　　Inthebazaarsisthepassionforgain，inthealleysofmusicandlightisthepassionforpleasure，inthemosquesisthepassionforprayerthatconnectsthesoulsofmenwiththeunseenbutstronglyfeltworld。Eachofthesepassionsisold，eachofthesepassionsintheheartofIslamisfierce。OnmyreturntoCairoIsoughtforthehiddenfirethatismagicintheduskyplacesofprayer。
　　AmistlayoverthecityasIstoodinanarrowbyway，andgazedupataheavylattice，ofwhichthedecayedandblackenedwoodseemedonguardbeforesometragicorwearysecret。BeforemewastheentrancetothemosqueofIbn-Tulun，olderthananymosqueinCairosaveonlythemosqueofAmru。Itisapproachedbyaflightofsteps，oneachsideofwhichstandold，impenetrablehouses。Abovemyhead，strungacrossfromonehousetotheother，weremanylittleredandyellowflagsornamentedwithgoldlozenges。Theseweretobearwitnessthatinacoupleofdays’time，fromthegreatopenplacebeneaththecitadelofCairo，theSacredCarpetwastosetoutonitslongjourneytoMecca。Myguidestruckonadoorandutteredafiercecry。Asmallshutterintheblackenedlatticewasopened，andayounggirl，withkohl-tintedeyelids，andabrilliantyellowhandkerchieftiedoverhercoarseblackhair，leanedout，heldashortparley，andvanished，drawingtheshuttertobehindher。Themistcreptaboutthetawdryflags，aheavydoorcreaked，whinedonitshinges，andfromthehouseofthegirltherecameanold，fatmanbearingamightykey。InamomentIwasfreeofthemosqueofIbn-Tulun。
　　Iascendedthesteps，passedthroughadoorway，andfoundmyselfonapieceofwasteground，flankedontherightbyanold，mysteriouswall，andontheleftbythelongwallofthemosque，fromwhichclosetomeroseagrey，unornamentedminaret，fulloftheplaindignityofunpretendingage。Uponitssummitwasperchedalargeandweary-
　　lookingbirdwithdraggledfeathers，whichremainedsostillthatitseemedtobeasadornamentsetthereabovethecity，andwatchingitforeverwitheyesthatcouldnotsee。Atrightangles，touchingthemosque，wassuchahouseasonecanseeonlyintheEast——
　　fantasticallyold，fantasticallydecayed，bleared，discolored，filthy，melancholy，showinghideouswindows，likewindowsintheslumofatownsetabovecoal-pitsinacollierydistrict，adegradedhouse，andyetahousewhichrousedtheimaginationanddroveittoitswork。InthisbuildingoncedwelttheHighPriestofthemosque。Thisdwelling，theancientwall，thegreyminaretwithitsmotionlessbird，thelamentablewastegroundatmyfeet，preparedmerightlytoappreciatethebitofoldCairoIhadcometosee。
　　PeoplewhoareboredbyGothicchurcheswouldnotlovethemosqueofIbn-Tulun。Nolongerisitusedforworship。Itcontainsnoprayinglife。Abandoned，bare，anddevoidofalllovelyornament，itstandslikesomehoarypatriarch，nakedandcalm，waitingitsdestinedendwithoutimpatienceandwithoutfear。Itisafatalisticmosque，andisimpressive，likeafatalisticman。Thegreatcourtofit，threehundredfeetsquare，withpointedarchessupportedbypiers，double，andonthesidelookingtowardMeccaquintuplearcades，hasagreatdignityofsombresimplicity。Notgrace，notalighteleganceofsoaringbeauty，butmassivenessandheavystrengtharedistinguishingfeaturesofthismosque。EventheoctagonalbasinanditsprotectingcupolathatstandsinthemiddleofthecourtlackthecharmthatbelongstosomanyofthefountainsofCairo。Therearetwominarets，theminaretofthebird，andalargerone，approachedbyabigstairwayupwhich，somydragomantoldme，aSultanwhosenameIhaveforgottenlovedtoridehisfavoritehorse。UponthesummitofthisminaretIstoodforalongtime，lookingdownoverthecity。
　　Greyitwasthatmorning，almostasLondonisgrey;butthesoundsthatcameupsoftlytomyearsoutofthemistwerenotthesoundsofLondon。Thosemanyminarets，almostlikecolumnsoffogrisingabovethecupolas，spoketomeoftheEastevenuponthissadandsunlessmorning。OncefromwhereIwasstandingatthetimeappointedwentforththecalltoprayer，andinthebarrencourtbeneathmetherewerecrowdsofardentworshippers。Sternmenpaceduponthehugeterracejustatmyfeetfingeringtheirheads，andunderthatheavycupolaweremadethelongablutionsofthefaithful。Butnownomancomestothisoldplace，nomurmurtoGoddisturbstheheavysilence。
　　Andthesilence，andtheemptiness，andthegreynessunderthelongarcades，allseemtomakeatremulousproclamation;allseemtowhisper，"Iamveryold，Iamuseless，Icumbertheearth。"EventhemosqueofAmru，whichstandsalsoongroundthatlooksgonetowaste，neardingyandsquathousesbuiltwithgreybricks，seemslessoldthanthismosqueofIbn-Tulun。Foritslongfa鏰deisstripedwithwhiteandapricot，andtherearelebbek-treesgrowinginitscourtnearthetwocolumnsbetweenwhichifyoucanpassyouareassuredofheaven。ButthemosqueofIbn-Tulun，seenuponasadday，makesapowerfulimpression，andfromthesummitofitsminaretyouaresummonedbythemanyminaretsofCairotomakethepilgrimageofthemosques，topassfromthe"brokenarches"oftheseSaraceniccloisterstothe"BlueMosque，"the"RedMosque，"themosquesofMohammedAli，ofSultanHassan，ofKaitBey，ofEl-Azhar，andsoontotheCopticchurchthatisthesilentcentreof"oldCairo。"ItissaidthatthereareoverfourhundredmosquesinCairo。AsIlookeddownfromtheminaretofIbn-Tulun，theycalledmethroughthemistthatblottedcompletelyoutallthesurroundingcountry，asifitwouldconcentratemyattentionupontheplacesofprayerduringtheseholydayswhenthepilgrimswerecrowdingintodepartwiththeHolyCarpet。AndIwentdownbythestaircaseofthehouse，andinthemistImademypilgrimage。
　　AseveryonewhovisitsRomegoestoSt。Peter’s，soeveryonewhovisitsCairogoestothemosqueofMohammedAliinthecitadel，agorgeousbuildinginamagnificentsituation，theinteriorofwhichalwaysmakesmethinkofCourtfunctions，andofthepompoflife，ratherthanofprayerandself-denial。Moreattractivetomeisthe"BlueMosque，"towhichIreturnedagainandagain，enticedalmostasbythefascinationofthelivingblueofasummerday。
　　Thismosque，whichisthemosqueofIbrahimAga，butwhichisfamiliarlyknowntoitsloversasthe"BlueMosque，"liestotheleftofaramshacklestreet，andfromtheoutsidedoesnotlookspeciallyinviting。EvenwhenIpassedthroughitsdoor，andstoodinthecourtbeyond，atfirstIfeltnotitscharm。Alllookedoldandrough，unkemptandinconfusion。Theredandwhitestripesofthewallsandthearchesofthearcade，themeanlittleplaceforablution——apipeandarowofbrasstaps——ledthemindfromaNeapolitanicetoasecond-rateschool，andforamomentIthoughtofabruptlyretiringandseekingmoresplendidprecincts。AndthenIlookedacrossthecourttothearcadethatlaybeyond，andIsawtheexquisite"love-
　　color"ofthemarvelloustilesthatgivesthismosqueitsname。
　　Thehugepillarsofthisarcadearestripedandugly，butbetweenthemshone，withanineffablelustre，awallofpurpleandblue，ofpurpleandbluesostrongandyetsodelicatethatitheldtheeyesanddrewthebodyforward。Ifevercolorcalls，itcallsinthebluemosqueofIbrahimAga。AndwhenIhadcrossedthecourt，whenIstoodbesidethepulpit，withitsdelicious，woodenfolding-doors，andstudiedthetilesofwhichthiswonderfulwalliscomposed，Ifoundthemaslovelynearastheyarelovelyfaroff。FromadistancetheyresembleaNatureeffect，arealmostlikeabitofSouthernseaorofsky，afragmentofgleamingMediterraneanseenthroughthepillarsofaloggia，orofSicilianbluewatchingoverEtnainthelongsummerdays。Whenoneisclosetothem，theyareamiracleofart。Thebackgroundofthemisamilkywhiteuponwhichisanelaboratepatternofpurpleandblue，generallyconventionalandrepresentativeofnoknownobject，butoccasionallyshowingtalltreessomewhatresemblingcypresses。Butitisimpossibleinwordsadequatelytodescribetheeffectofthesetiles，andofthetilesthatlinetotheveryroofthetomb-houseontherightofthecourt。Theyarelikeacryofecstasygoingupinthisotherwisenotverybeautifulmosque;theymakeitunforgettable，theydrawyoubacktoitagainandyetagain。Onthedarkestdayofwintertheysetsomethingofsummerthere。Inthesaddestmomenttheyproclaimthefactthatthereisjoyintheworld，thattherewasjoyintheheartsofcreativeartistsyearsuponyearsago。IfyouareeverinCairo，andsinkintodepression，gotothe"BlueMosque"andseeifitdoesnothaveuponyouanupliftingmoraleffect。Andthen，ifyoulikegoonfromittotheGamiaElMovayad，sometimescalledElAhmar，"TheRed，"whereyouwillfindgreaterglories，thoughnogreaterfascination;forthetilesholdtheirownamongallthewondersofCairo。
　　Outsidethe"RedMosque，"byitsimposingandloftywall，thereisalwaysanassemblageofpeople，forprayersgoupinthismosque，ablutionsaremadethere，andthefloorofthearcadeisoftencoveredwithmenstudyingtheKoran，calmlymeditating，orprostratingthemselvesinprayer。Andsothereisagreatcomingandgoinguptheoutsidestairsandthroughthewonderfuldoorway：beggarscrouchunderthewalloftheterrace;thesellersofcakes，ofsyrupsandlemon-
　　water，andofthebigandlusciouswatermelonsthataresopopularinCairo，displaytheirwaresbeneathawningsoforange-coloredsackcloth，orinthefullglareofthesun，and，theirprayerscomfortablycompletedorperhapsnotyetbegun，theworshippersstandtogossip，orsittosmoketheirpipes，beforegoingontheirwayintothecityorthemosque。Therearenoiseandperpetualmovementhere。
　　Standforawhiletogainanimpressionfromthembeforeyoumountthestepsandpassintothespaciouspeacebeyond。
　　Orientalsmustsurelyrevelincontrasts。Thereisnotumultlikethetumultincertainoftheirmarket-places。Thereisnopeacelikethepeaceincertainoftheirmosques。Evenwithouttheslipperscarefullytiedoveryourbootsyouwouldwalksoftly，gingerly，inthemosqueofElMovayad，themosqueofthecolumnsandthegarden。Foroncewithinthedooryouhavetakenwingsandflownfromthecity，youareinahavenwherethemostdeliciouscalmseemsfloatinglikeanatmosphere。
　　Throughaloftycolonnadeyoucomeintothemosque，andfindyourselfbeneathamagnificentlyornamentalwoodenroof，thegeneraleffectofwhichisofdeepbrownandgold，thoughtherearedeftlyintroducedmanytouchesofveryfineredandstrong，luminousblue。Thewallsarecoveredwithgoldandsuperbmarbles，andtherearemanyquotationsfromtheKoraninArabletteringheavywithgold。Thegreatdoorsareofchiseledbronzeandofwood。Inthedistanceisasultan’stomb，surmountedbyahighandbeautifulcupola，andpiercedwithwindowsofjeweledglass。Buttheattractionofthisplaceofprayercomeslessfromitsmagnificence，fromtheshiningofitsgold，andthegleamingofitsmany-coloredmarbles，thanfromitsspaciousness，itsairiness，itsstillseclusion，anditsgarden。Mohammedanslovefountainsandshadyplaces，ascansurelylovethemonlythosewhocarryintheirmindsaremembranceofthedesert。Theylovetohaveflowersblowingbesidethemwhiletheypray。Andwiththeimmenselyhighandcrenelatedwallsofthismosquelongagotheysetafountainofpurewhitemarble，covereditwithashelteroflimestone，andplantedtreesandflowersaboutit。Therebeneathpalmsandtalleucalyptus-
　　treesevenonthismistydayofthewinter，roseswereblooming，pinksscentedtheair，andgreatredflowers，thatlookedlikeemblemsofpassion，staredupwardalmostfiercely，asifsearchingforthesun。
　　AsIstoodthereamongtheworshippersinthewidecolonnade，neartheexquisitelycarvedpulpitintheshadowofwhichanoldmanwholookedlikeAbrahamwasswayingtoandfroandwhisperinghisprayers，I
　　thoughtofOmarKhayyamandhowhewouldhavelovedthisgarden。Butinsteadofwaterfromthewhitemarblefountain，hewouldhavedesiredacupofwinetodrinkbeneaththeboughsoftheshelteringtrees。Andhecouldnothavejoinedwithoutdoubtorfearintheferventdevotionsoftheundoubtingmen，whocameheretosteeptheirwillsinthegreatwillthatflowedaboutthemliketheoceanaboutlittleisletsofthesea。
　　Fromthe"RedMosque"IwenttothegreatmosqueofEl-Azhar，tothewonderfulmosqueofSultanHassan，whichunfortunatelywasbeingrepairedandcouldnotbeproperlyseen，thoughtheexaminationoftheoldportalcoveredwithsilver，gold，andbrass，thegeneralcolor-
　　effectofwhichisadeliciousdullgreen，repaidmeformyvisit，andtotheexquisitelygracefultomb-mosqueofKaitBey，whichisbeyondthecitywalls。ButthoughIvisitedthese，andmanyothermosquesandtombs，includingthetombsoftheKhalifas，andtheextremelysmartmoderntombsofthefamilyofthepresentKhediveofEgypt，nobuildingdedicatedtoworship，ortothecultofthedead，leftamorelastingimpressionuponmymindthantheCopticchurchofAbuSergius，orAbuSargah，whichstandsinthedesolateandstrangelyantiquequartercalled"OldCairo。"Oldindeeditseems，almostterriblyold。
　　Silentanddesolateisit，untouchedbythevividlifeoftherichandprosperousEgyptofto-day，aplaceofsaddreams，aplaceofghosts，aplaceoflivingspectres。Iwenttoitalone。Anycompanion，howeverdreary，wouldhavetarnishedtheperfectionoftheimpressionOldCairoanditsCopticchurchcangivetothelonelytraveller。
　　Idescendedtoagiganticdoorofpalm-woodwhichwassetinanoldbrickarch。Thisdoorupontheoutsidewassheetedwithiron。Whenitopened，IleftbehindmetheworldIknew，theworldthatbelongstousofto-day，withitsanimation，itsimpetus，itsflashingchanges，itssweepinghurryand"go。"Isteppedatonceinto，surely，somemolderingcenturylonghiddeninthedarkwomboftheforgottenpast。
　　Thedoorofpalm-woodclosed，andIfoundmyselfinasortofdesertedtown，ofnarrow，emptystreets，beetlingarchways，tallhousesbuiltofgreybricks，whichlookedasiftheyhadturnedgraduallygrey，ashairdoesonanagedhead。Very，verytallwerethesehouses。Theyallappearedhorribly，almostindecently，old。AsIstoodandstaredatthem，IrememberedastoryofaRussianfriendofmine，alandedproprietor，onwhosecountryestatedweltapeasantwomanwholivedtobeoverahundred。EachyearwhenhecamefromPetersburg，thisoldwomanarrivedtosalutehim。Atlastshewasahundredandfour，and，whenhelefthisestateforthewinter，shebadehimgood-byeforever。Forever！But，lo！thenextyearthereshestillwas——onehundredandfiveyearsold，deeplyashamedandfullofapologiesforbeingstillalive。"Icannothelpit，"shesaid。"Ioughtnolongertobehere，butitseemsIdonotknowanything。Idonotknowevenhowtodie！"Thegrey，tallhousesofOldCairodonotknowhowtodie。Sotheretheystand，showingtheirhaggardfacades，whicharebrokenbyprotruding，worm-eaten，woodenlatticesnotunliketheshaggy，protuberanteyebrowswhichsometimessproutaboveblearedeyesthathaveseentoomuch。Noonelookedoutfromtheselattices。Wasthere，couldtherebe，anylifebehindthem？Didtheyconcealharemsofcentenarianwomenwithwrinkledfaces，andcorrugatednecksandhands？
　　Hereandtheredroopeddownastringterminatinginalampcoveredwithminutedust，thatwaveredinthewintrywindwhichstoletremulouslybetweenthehouses。Andthehousesseemedtobeleaningforward，asiftheywerefaintotoucheachotherandleavenoplaceforthewind，asiftheywouldblotouttheexiguousalleyssothatnolifeshouldeverventuretostirthroughthemagain。DidtheeyesoftheVirginMary，didthebabyeyesoftheChristChild，evergazeuponthesebuildings？Onecouldalmostbelieveit。Onecouldalmostbelievethatalreadythesebuildingsweretherewhen，fleeingfromthewrathofHerod，MotherandChildsoughttheshelterofthecryptofAbuSargah。
　　Iwenton，walkingwithprecaution，andpresentlyIsawaman。Hewassittingcollapsedbeneathanarchway，andhelookedolderthantheworld。Hewascladinwhatseemedlikeasortofcataractofmulti-
　　coloredrags。Anenormouswhitebeardfloweddownoverhisshrunkenbreast。Hisfacewasamassofyellowwrinkles。Hiseyeswereclosed。
　　Hisyellowfingersweretwinedaboutawoodenstaff。Abovehisheadwasdrawnapatchedhood。Washealiveordead？Icouldnottell，andIpassedhimontiptoe。Andgoingalwayswithprecautionbetweenthetall，greyhousesandbeneaththeloweringarches，IcameatlasttotheCopticchurch。
　　Nearit，inthestreet，wereseveralCopts——large，fat，yellow-
　　skinned，apparentlysleeping，inattitudesthatmadethemlooklikebundles。Iwokeoneup，andaskedtoseethechurch。Hestared，changedslowlyfromabundletoastandingman，wentawayandpresently，returningwithakeyandapale，intelligent-lookingyouth，admittedmeintooneofthestrangestbuildingsitwasevermylottoenter。
　　TheaverageCopticchurchisfarlessfascinatingthantheaveragemosque，butthechurchofAbuSargahislikenootherchurchthatI
　　visitedinEgypt。Itsaspectofhoaryagemakesitstrangely，almostthrillinglyimpressive。Nowandthen，ingoingabouttheworld，onecomesacrossahumanbeing，likethewhite-beardedmanbeneaththearch，whomightbeathousandyearsold，twothousand，anything，whoseappearancesuggeststhatheorshe，perhaps，wasofthecompanywhichwasdrivenoutofEden，butthattheexpulsionwasnotrecorded。Andnowandthenonehappensuponabuildingthatcreatesthesameimpression。Suchabuildingisthischurch。ItisknownandrecordedthatmorethanathousandyearsagoithadapatriarchwhosenamewasShenuti;butitissupposedtohavebeenbuiltlongbeforethattime，andpartsofitlookasiftheyhadbeensetupattheverybeginningofthings。Thewallsaredingyandwhitewashed。Thewoodenroofispeaked，withmanycross-beams。Highuponthewallsareseveralsmallsquarelatticesofwood。Thefloorisofdiscoloredstone。Everywhereoneseeswoodwroughtintolattices，crumblingcarpetsthatlookalmostasfrailandbrittleandfatiguedaswrappingsofmummies，andworn-outmattingthatwouldsurelybecomeasthedustifonesethisfeetharduponit。Thestructureofthebuildingisbasilican，anditcontainssomestrangecarvingsoftheLastSupper，theNativity，andSt。Demetrius。Aroundthenavetherearemonolithiccolumnsofwhitemarble，andonecolumnoftheredandshininggranitethatisfoundinsuchquantitiesatAssuan。TherearethreealtarsinthreechapelsfacingtowardtheEast。Copticmonksandnunsarerenownedfortheirausterityoflife，andtheiralmostfiercezealinfastingandinprayer，andinCopticchurchestheservicesaresometimessolongthattheworshippers，whoarealmostperpetuallystanding，usecrutchesfortheirsupport。Intheirchurchestherealwaysseemstometobeacoldandaustereatmosphere，fardifferentfromtheatmosphereofthemosquesorofanyRomanCatholicchurch。Itsometimesratherrepelsme，andgenerallymakemefeeleitherdullorsad。ButinthisimmenselyoldchurchofAbuSargahtheatmosphereofmelancholyaidstheimagination。
　　InCopticchurchesthereisgenerallyagreatdealofwoodworkmadeintolattices，andintothescreenswhichmarkthedivisions，usuallyfour，butoccasionallyfive，whicheachchurchcontains，and，whicharesetapartforthealtar，forthepriests，singers，andministrants，forthemaleportionofthecongregation，andforthewomen，whositbythemselves。Thesedivisions，sodifferentfromthewidespaciousnessandairinessofthemosques，whereonlypillarsandcolumnspartlybreakuptheperspective，givetoCopticbuildingsanairofsecrecyandofmystery，which，however，isoftenratherrepellentthanalluring。Inthehighwoodenlatticestherearenarrowdoors，andinthedivisionwhichcontainsthealtarthedoorisconcealedbyacurtainembroideredwithalargecross。TheMohammedanswhocreatedthemosquesshowedmarvelloustaste。Coptsareoftenlackingintaste，astheyhaveprovedhereandthereinAbuSargah。
　　Aboveonecuriousandunlatticedscreen，neartoamatteddais，droopsahideousbanner，red，purple，andyellow，withawhitecross。Peepingin，throughanoblongaperture，oneseesasortofminutecircus，intheformofahalf-moon，containingatablewithanuglyred-and-whitestripedcloth。TheretheEucharist，whichmustbeprecededbyconfession，iscelebrated。Thepulpitisofrosewood，inlaidwithivoryandebony，andinwhatiscalledthe"haikal-screen"therearesomefinespecimensofcarvedebony。
　　AsIwanderedaboutoverthetatteredcarpetsandthecrumblingmatting，underthepeakedroof，asIlookedupattheflat-roofedgalleries，orexaminedthesculptureandivorymosaicsthat，blearedbythepassingofcenturies，seemedtobefadingawayundermyveryeyes，asuponeverysideIwasconfrontedbythehoarywoodenlatticesinwhichthedustfoundahomeandrestedundisturbed，andasI
　　thoughtofthenarrowalleysofgreyandsilentdwellingsthroughwhichIhadcometothisstrangeandmelancholy"TempleoftheFather，"Iseemedtofeeluponmybreasttheweightoftheyearsthathadpassedsincepioushandserectedthishomeofprayerinwhichnownoonewaspraying。ButIhadyettoreceiveanotherandadeeperimpressionofsolemnityandheavysilence。ByastaircaseIdescendedtothecrypt，whichliesbeneaththechoirofthechurch，andthere，surroundedbycolumnsofvenerablemarble，besideanaltar，Istoodontheveryspotwhere，accordingtotradition，theVirginMarysoothedtheChristChildtosleepinthedarknight。And，asIstoodthere，I
　　feltthatthetraditionwasatrueone，andthatthereindeedhadstayedthewondrousChildandtheHolyMotherlong，howlongago。
　　Thepale，intelligentCopticyouth，whohadfollowedmeeverywhere，andwhonowstoodlikeastatuegazinguponmewithhislustrouseyes，murmuredinEnglish，"Thisisaverygoodplace;thismostinterestin’
　　placeinCairo。"
　　Certainlyitisaplaceonecanneverforget。Foritholdsinitsdustyarms——what？Somethingimpalpable，somethingineffable，somethingstrangeasdeath，spectral，cold，yetexciting，somethingthatseemstocreepintoitoutofthedistantpastandtowhisper："Iamhere。I
　　amnotutterlydead。StillIhaveavoiceandcanmurmurtoyou，eyesandcanregardyou，asoulandcan，ifonlyforamoment，beyourcompanioninthissad，yetsacred，place。"
　　Contrastisthesalt，thepepper，too，oflife，andoneofthegreatjoysoftravelisthatatwillonecancommandcontrast。Fromsilenceonecanplungeintonoise，fromstillnessonecanhastentomovement，fromthestrangenessandthewonderoftheantiquepastonecanstepintothebrilliance，thegaiety，thevividanimationofthepresent。
　　FromBabylononecangotoBulak;andontoBabZouweleh，withitscryingchildren，itsveiledwomen，itscake-sellers，itsfruiterers，itsturbanedEthiopians，itsblackNubians，andalmostfairEgyptians;
　　onecanvisitthebazaars，oronamarketmorningspendanhouratShareh-el-Gamaleyeh，watchingthedisdainfulcamelspass，soft-footed，alongtheshadowystreets，andtheflat-nosedAfricannegroes，withtheiralmostpurple-blackskins，theirbulgingeyes，inwhichyellowlightsarecaught，andtheirhugehandswithturned-backthumbs，counttheirgains，oryelltheirdisappointmentoverabargainfromwhichtheyhavecomeoutnotvictors，butvanquished。IfinCairotherearemelancholy，andsilence，andantiquity，inCairomaybefoundalsoplacesofintenseanimation，ofalmostfranticbustle，ofuproarthatcriestoheaven。ToBulakstillcomethehigh-prowedboatsoftheNile，withstripedsailsbellyingbeforeafairwind，tounloadtheirmerchandise。FromtheDeltatheybringthousandsofpanniersoffruit，andfromUpperEgyptandfromNubiaallmannerofstrangeandpreciousthingswhichareabsorbedintothegreatbazaarsofthecity，andaresoldtomanyatravelleratpriceswhich，toputitmildly，bringtothesellersagoodreturn。ForinEgyptifoneleavehisheart，heleavesalsonotseldomhisskin。ThegoblinmenofthegreatgoblinmarketofCairotakeall，andremainunsatisfiedandcallingformore。
　　Isaid，inaformerchapter，thatnofiercedemandsformoneyfelluponmyears。ButIconfess，whenIsaidit，thatIhadforgottencertainbazaarsofCairo。
　　Butwhatmattersit？HewhohasdrunkNilewatersmustreturn。Thegoldencountrycallshim;themosqueswiththeirmarblecolumns，theirbluetiles，theirstern-facedworshippers;thenarrowstreetswiththeirtallhouses，theirlatticedwindows，theirpeepingeyeslookingdownonthelifethatflowsbeneathandcanneverbetrulytasted;thePyramidswiththeirbasesinthesandandtheirpointedsummitssomewherenearthestars;theSphinxwithitsfacethatisliketheenigmaofhumanlife;thegreatriverthatflowsbythetombsandthetemples;thegreatdesertthatgirdlesitwithagoldengirdle。
　　Egyptcalls——evenacrossthespaceoftheworld;andacrossthespaceoftheworldhewhoknowsitisreadytocome，obedienttoitssummons，becauseinthralltotheeternalfascinationofthe"landofsand，andruins，andgold";thelandofthecharmedserpent，thelandoftheafterglow，thatmayfadeawayfromtheskyabovethemountainsofLibya，butthatfadesneverfromthememoryofonewhohasseenitfromthebaseofsomegreatcolumn，orthetopofsomemightypylon;
　　thelandthathasaspell——wonderful，beautifulEgypt。