artistic, antiquarian, and historical interest, to this latter city;
though, as a matter of fact, Cairo is a modern city compared to the
Alexandria of Alexander; just as Alexandria is but of mushroom growth
contrasted with Heliopolis, Thebes, Memphis, or the other dead cities of
the Nile Valley of which traces still remain. It has often been remarked
that the ancient city has bequeathed nothing but its ruins and its name
to Alexandria of to-day. Even these ruins are deplorably scanty, and most
of the sites are mainly conjectural. Few vestiges remain of the
architectural splendor of the Ptolemaic dynasty. Where are now the 4,000
palaces, the 4,000 baths, and the 400 theaters, about which the conquering
general Amru boasted to his master, the Caliph Omar? What now remains of
the magnificent temple of Serapis, towering over the city on its platform
of one hundred steps? Though there are scarcely any traces of the glories
of ancient Alexandria, once the second city of the Empire, yet the
recollection of its splendors has not died out, and to the thoughtful
traveller this city of memories has its attractions. Here St. Mark
preached the Gospel and suffered martyrdom, and here Athanasius opposed in
warlike controversy the Arian heresies. Here for many centuries were
collected in this center of Greek learning and culture the greatest
intellects of the civilized world. Here Cleopatra, "vainqueur des
vainqueurs du monde," held Antony willing captive, while Octavius was
preparing his legions to crush him. Here Amru conquered, and here
Abercrombie fell. Even those whose tastes do not incline them to
historical or theological researches are familiar, thanks to Kingsley's
immortal romance, with the story of the noble-minded Hypatia and the
crafty and ambitious Cyril, and can give rein to their imagination by
verifying the sites of the museum where she lectured, and the Cæsarum
where she fell a victim to the atrocious zeal of Peter the Reader and his
rabble of fanatical monks.
The peculiar shape of the city, built partly on the Pharos Island and
peninsula, and partly on the mainland, is due, according to the
chroniclers, to a patriotic whim of the founder, who planned the city in
the form of a chlamys, the short cloak or tunic worn by the Macedonian
soldiers. The modern city, though it has pushed its boundaries a good way
to the east and west, still preserves this curious outline, though to a
non-classical mind it rather suggests a star-fish. Various legends are
extant to account for the choice of this particular spot for a
Mediterranean port. According to the popular version, a venerable seer
appeared to the Great Conqueror in a dream, and quoted those lines of the
Odyssey which describe the one sheltered harbor on the northern coast of
Egypt:--"a certain island called Pharos, that with the high-waved sea is
washed, just against Egypt." Acting on this supernatural hint, Alexander
decided to build his city on that part of the coast to which the Pharos
isle acted as a natural breakwater, and where a small Greek fishing
settlement was already established, called Rhacotis. The legend is
interesting, but it seems scarcely necessary to fall back on a mythical
story to account for the selection of this site. The two great aims of
Alexander were the foundation of a center for trade, and the extension of
commerce, and also the fusion of the Greek and Roman nations. For the
carrying out of these objects, the establishment of a convenient sea-port
with a commanding position at the mouth of the Nile was required. The
choice of a site a little west of the Nile mouths was, no doubt, due to
his knowledge of the fact that the sea current sets eastward, and that the
alluvial soil brought down by the Nile would soon choke a harbor excavated
east of the river, as had already happened at Pelusium. It is this
alluvial wash which has rendered the harbors of Rosetta and Damietta
almost useless for vessels of any draught, and at Port Said the
accumulation of sand necessitates continuous dredging in order to keep
clear the entrance of the Suez Canal.
A well-known writer on Egypt has truly observed that there are three
Egypts to interest the traveller. The Egypt of the Pharoahs and the Bible,
the Egypt of the Caliphates and the "Arabian Nights," and the Egypt of
European commerce and enterprise. It is to this third stage of
civilization that the fine harbor of Alexandria bears witness. Not only is
it of interest to the engineer and the man of science, but it is also of
great historic importance. It serves as a link between ancient and modern
civilization. The port is Alexander the Great's best monument--"si quæris
monumentum respice." But for this, Alexandria might now be a little
fishing port of no more importance than the little Greek fishing village,
Rhacotis, whose ruins lie buried beneath its spacious quays. It is not
inaccurate to say that the existing harbor is the joint work of Alexander
and English engineers of the present century. It was originally formed by
the construction of a vast mole (Heptastadion) joining the island of
Pharos to the mainland; and this stupendous feat of engineering, planned
and carried out by Alexander, has been supplemented by the magnificent
breakwater constructed by England in 1872, at a cost of over two and a
half millions sterling. After Marseilles, Malta, and Spezzia, it is
perhaps the finest port in the Mediterranean, both on account of its
natural advantages as a haven, and by reason of the vast engineering works
mentioned above. The western harbor (formerly called Eunostos or "good
home sailing") of which we are speaking--for the eastern, or so-called new
harbor, is choked with sand and given up to native craft--has only one
drawback in the dangerous reef at its entrance, and which should have been
blasted before the breakwater and the other engineering works were
undertaken. The passage through the bar is very intricate and difficult,
and is rarely attempted in very rough weather. The eastern harbor will be
of more interest to the artist, crowded as it is with the picturesque
native craft and dahabyehs with their immense lateen sails. The traveller,
so disgusted with the modern aspect of the city from the western harbor,
finds some consolation here, and begins to feel that he is really in the
East. Formerly this harbor was alone available for foreign ships, the
bigoted Moslems objecting to the "Frankish dogs" occupying their best
haven. This restriction has, since the time of Mehemet Ali, been removed,
greatly to the advantage of Alexandrian trade.
During the period of Turkish misrule--when Egypt under the Mamelukes,
though nominally a vilayet of the Ottoman Empire, was practically under
the dominion of the Beys--the trade of Alexandria had declined
considerably, and Rosetta had taken away most of its commerce. When
Mehemet Ali, the founder of the present dynasty, rose to power, his clear
intellect at once comprehended the importance of this ancient emporium,
and the wisdom of Alexander's choice of a site for the port which was
destined to become the commercial center of three continents.
Mehemet is the creator of modern Alexandria. He deepened the harbor, which
had been allowed to be choked by the accumulation of sand, lined it with
spacious quays, built the massive forts which protect the coast, and
restored the city to its old commercial importance, by putting it into
communication with the Nile through the medium of the Mahmoudiyeh Canal.
This vast undertaking was only effected with great loss of life. It was
excavated by the forced labor of 250,000 peasants, of whom some 20,000
died from the heat and the severe toil.
On landing from the steamer the usual scrimmage with Arab porters,
Levantine hotel touts, and Egyptian donkey boys, will have to be endured
by the traveller. He may perhaps be struck, if he has any time or temper
left for reflection at all, with the close connection between the English
world of fashion and the donkey, so far at least as nomenclature is
concerned, each animal being named after some English celebrity. The
inseparable incidents of disembarkation at an Eastern port are, however,
familiar to all who have visited the East; and the same scenes are
repeated at every North African port, from Tangier to Port Said, and need
not be further described.
The great thoroughfare of Alexandria, a fine street running in a straight
line from the western gate of the city to the Place Mehemet Ali, is within
a few minutes of the quay. A sudden turn and this strange mingling of
Eastern and Western life bursts upon the spectator's astonished gaze. This
living diorama, formed by the brilliant and ever-shifting crowd, is in its
way unique. A greater variety of nationalities is collected here than even
in Constantinople or cosmopolitan Algiers. Let us stand aside and watch
this motley collection of all nations, kindreds, and races pouring along
this busy highway. The kaleidoscopic variety of brilliant color and
fantastic costume seems at first a little bewildering. Solemn and
impassive-looking Turks gently ambling past on gaily caparisoned asses,
grinning negroes from the Nubian hills, melancholy-looking fellahs in
their scanty blue kaftans, cunning-featured Levantines, green-turbaned
Shereefs, and picturesque Bedouins from the desert stalking along in
their flowing bernouses, make up the mass of this restless throng.
Interspersed, and giving variety of color to this living kaleidoscope,
gorgeously-arrayed Jews, fierce-looking Albanians, their many-colored
sashes bristling with weapons, and petticoated Greeks. Then, as a pleasing
relief to this mass of color, a group of Egyptian ladies glide past, "a
bevy of fair damsels richly dight," no doubt, but their faces, as well as
their rich attire, concealed under the inevitable yashmak surmounting the
balloon-like trousers. Such are the elements in this mammoth masquerade
which make up the strange and varied picture of Alexandrian street life.
And now we may proceed to visit the orthodox sights, but we have seen the
greatest sight Alexandria has to show us.
[Illustration]
The Place Mehemet Ali, usually called for the sake of brevity the Grand
Square, is close at hand. This is the center of the European quarter, and
round it are collected the banks, consular offices, and principal shops.
This square, the focus of the life of modern Alexandria, is appropriately
named after the founder of the present dynasty, and the creator of the
Egypt of to-day. To this great ruler, who at one time bid fair to become
the founder, not only of an independent kingdom, but of a great Oriental
Empire, Alexandria owes much of its prosperity and commercial importance.
The career of Mehemet Ali is interesting and romantic. There is a certain
similarity between his history and that of Napoleon I., and the
coincidence seems heightened when we remember that they were born in the
same year. Each, rising from an obscure position, started as an adventurer
on foreign soil, and each rose to political eminence by force of arms.
Unlike Napoleon, however, in one important point, Mehemet Ali founded a
dynasty which still remains in power, in spite of the weakness and
incapacity of his successors. To Western minds, perhaps, his great claim
to hold a high rank in the world's history lies in his efforts to
introduce European institutions and methods of civilization, and to
establish a system of government opposed to Mohammedan instincts. He
created an army and navy which were partly based on European models,
stimulated agriculture and trade, and organized an administrative and
fiscal system which did much towards putting the country on a sound
financial footing. The great blot of his reign was no doubt the horrible
massacre of the Mameluke Beys, and this has been the great point of attack
by his enemies and detractors. It is difficult to excuse this oriental
example of a _coup d'état_, but it must be remembered that the existence
of this rebellious element was incompatible with the maintenance of his
rule, and that the peace of the country was as much endangered by the
Mameluke Beys as was that of the Porte by the Janissaries a few years
later, when a somewhat similar atrocity was perpetrated.
In the middle of the square stands a handsome equestrian statue of Mehemet
Ali which is, in one respect, probably unique. The Mohammedan religion
demands the strictest interpretation of the injunction in the decalogue
against making "to thyself any craven image," and consequently a statue to
a follower of the creed of Mahomet is rarely seen in a Mohammedan country.
The erection of this particular monument was much resented by the more
orthodox of the Mussulman population of Alexandria, and the religious
feelings of the mob manifested themselves in riots and other hostile
demonstrations. Not only representations in stone or metal, but any kind
of likeness of the human form is thought impious by Mohammedans. They
believe that the author will be compelled on the Resurrection Day to indue
with life the sacrilegious counterfeit presentment. Tourists in Egypt who
are addicted to sketching, or who dabble in photography, will do well to
remember these conscientious scruples of the Moslem race, and not let
their zeal for bringing back pictorial mementoes of their travels induce
them to take "snapshots" of mosque interiors, for instance. In Egypt, no
doubt, the natives have too wholesome a dread of the Franks to manifest
their outraged feelings by physical force, but still it is ungenerous, not
to say unchristian, to wound people's religious prejudices. In some other
countries of North Africa, notably in the interior of Morocco or Tripoli,
promiscuous photography might be attended with disagreeable results, if
not a certain amount of danger. A tourist would find a Kodak camera, even
with all the latest improvements, a somewhat inefficient weapon against a
mob of fanatical Arabs.
That imposing pile standing out so prominently on the western horn of
Pharos is the palace of Ras-et-Teen, built by Mehemet Ali, and restored in
execrable taste by his grandson, the ex-Khedive Ismail. Seen from the
ship's side, the palace has a rather striking appearance. The exterior,
however, is the best part of it, as the ornate and gaudy interior contains
little of interest. From the upper balconies there is a good view of the
harbor, and the gardens are well worth visiting. They are prettily laid
out, and among many other trees, olives may be seen, unknown in any other
part of the Delta. The decorations and appointments of the interior are
characterized by a tawdry kind of magnificence. The incongruous mixture of
modern French embellishments and oriental splendor gives the saloons a
meretricious air, and the effect is bizarre and unpleasing. It is a relief
to get away from such obtrusive evidences of the ex-Khedive's decorative
tastes, by stepping out on the balcony. What a forest of masts meets the
eye as one looks down on the vast harbor; the inner one, a "sea within a
sea," crowded with vessels bearing the flags of all nations, and full of
animation and movement.
The view is interesting, and makes one realize the commercial importance
of this great emporium of trade, the meeting-place of the commerce of
three continents, yet it does not offer many features to distinguish it
from a view of any other thriving port.
For the best view of the city and the surrounding country we must climb
the slopes of Mount Caffarelli to the fort which crowns the summit, or
make our way to the fortress Kom-el-Deek on the elevated ground near the
Rosetta Gate. Alexandria, spread out like a map, lies at our feet. At this
height the commonplace aspect of a bustling and thriving seaport, which
seems on a close acquaintance to be Europeanized and modernized out of the
least resemblance to an oriental city, is changed to a prospect of some
beauty. At Alexandria, even more than at most cities of the East, distance
lends enchantment to the view. From these heights the squalid back streets
and the bustling main thoroughfares look like dark threads woven into the
web of the city, relieved by the white mosques, with their swelling domes
curving inward like fan palms towards the crescents flashing in the rays
of the sun, and their tall graceful minarets piercing the smokeless and
cloudless atmosphere. The subdued roar of the busy streets and quays is
occasionally varied by the melodious cry of the muezzin. Then looking
northward one sees the clear blue of the Mediterranean, till it is lost
in the hazy horizon. To the west and south the placid waters of the
Mareotis Lake, in reality a shallow and insalubrious lagoon, but to all
appearances a smiling lake, which, with its water fringed by the low-lying
sand dunes, reminds the spectator of the peculiar beauties of the Norfolk
Broads.
Looking south beyond the lake lies the luxuriant plain of the Delta. The
view may not be what is called picturesque, but the scenery has its
special charm. The country is no doubt flat and monotonous, but there is
no monotony of color in this richly cultivated plain.
Innumerable pens have been worn out in comparison and simile when
describing the peculiar features of this North African Holland. To some
this huge market garden with its network of canals, simply suggests a
chess-board. Others are not content with these prosaic comparisons, and
their more fanciful metaphor likens the country to a green robe interwoven
with silver threads, or to a seven-ribbed fan, the ribs being of course
the seven mouths of the Nile. Truth to tell, though, the full force of
this fanciful image would be more felt by a spectator who is enjoying that
glorious panorama from the Cairo citadel, as the curious triangular form
of the Delta is much better seen from that point than from Alexandria at
the base of the triangle.
One may differ as to the most appropriate metaphors, but all must agree
that there are certain elements of beauty about the Delta landscape. Seen,
as most tourists do see it, in winter or spring, the green fields of
waving corn and barley, the meadows of water-melons and cucumbers, the
fields of pea and purple lupin one mass of colors, interspersed with the
palm-groves and white minarets, which mark the site of the almost
invisible mud villages, and intersected thickly with countless canals and
trenches that in the distance look like silver threads, and suggest
Brobdignagian filigree work, or the delicate tracery of King Frost on our
window-panes, the view is impressive and not without beauty.
In the summer and early autumn, especially during August and September
when the Nile is at its height, the view is more striking though hardly so
beautiful. Then it is that this Protean country offers its most impressive
aspect. The Delta becomes an inland archipelago studded with green
islands, each island crowned with a white-mosqued village, or conspicuous
with a cluster of palms. The Nile and its swollen tributaries are covered
with huge-sailed dahabyehs, which give life and variety to the watery
expanse.
Alexandria can boast of few "lions" as the word is usually understood, but
of these by far the most interesting is the column known by the name of
Pompey's Pillar. Everyone has heard of the famous monolith, which is as
closely associated in people's minds with Alexandria as the Colosseum is
with Rome, or the Alhambra with Granada. It has, of course, no more to do
with the Pompey of history (to whom it is attributed by the unlettered
tourist) than has Cleopatra's Needle with that famous Queen, the "Serpent
of Old Nile"; or Joseph's Well at Cairo with the Hebrew Patriarch. It owes
its name to the fact that a certain prefect, named after Cæsar's great
rival, erected on the summit of an existing column a statue in honor of
the horse of the Roman Emperor Diocletian. There is a familiar legend
which has been invented to account for the special reason of its erection,
which guide-book compilers are very fond of. According to this story,
this historic animal, through an opportune stumble, stayed the persecution
of the Alexandrian Christians, as the tyrannical emperor had sworn to
continue the massacre till the blood of the victims reached his horse's
knees. Antiquarians and Egyptologists are, however, given to scoffing at
the legend as a plausible myth.
In the opinion of many learned authorities, the shaft of this column was
once a portion of the Serapeum, that famous building which was both a
temple of the heathen god Serapis and a vast treasure-house of ancient
civilization. It has been suggested--in order to account for its omission
in the descriptions of Alexandria, given by Pliny and Strabo, who had
mentioned the two obelisks of Cleopatra--that the column had fallen, and
that the Prefect Pompey had merely re-erected it in honor of Diocletian,
and replaced the statue of Serapis with one of the Emperor--or of his
horse, according to some chroniclers. This statute, if it ever existed,
has now disappeared. As it stands, however, it is a singularly striking
and beautiful monument, owing to its great height, simplicity of form, and
elegant proportions. It reminds the spectator a little of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square, and perhaps the absence of a statue is not altogether
to be regretted considering the height of the column, as it might suggest
to the irrepressible tourists who scoff at Nelson's statue as the
"Mast-headed Admiral," some similar witticism at the expense of
Diocletian.
With the exception of this monolith, which, "a solitary column, mourns
above its prostrate brethren," only a few fragmentary and scattered ruins
of fallen columns mark the site of the world-renowned Serapeum. Nothing
else remains of the famous library, the magnificent portico with its
hundred steps, the vast halls, and the four hundred marble columns of that
great building designed to perpetuate the glories of the Ptolemies. This
library, which was the forerunner of the great libraries of modern times,
must not be confounded with the equally famous one that was attached to
the Museum, whose exact site is still a bone of contention among
antiquarians. The latter was destroyed by accident, when Julius Cæsar set
fire to the Alexandrian fleet. The Serapeum collection survived for six
hundred years, till its wanton destruction through the fanaticism of the
Caliph Omar. The Arab conqueror is said to have justified this barbarism
with a fallacious epigram, which was as unanswerable, however logically
faulty, as the famous one familiar to students of English history under
the name of Archbishop Morton's Fork. "If these writings," declared the
uncompromising conqueror, "agree with the Book of God, they are useless,
and need not be preserved; if they disagree, they are pernicious, and
ought to be destroyed." Nothing could prevail against this flagrant
example of a _petitio principii_, and for six months the three hundred
thousand parchments supplied fuel for the four thousand baths of
Alexandria.
Hard by Pompey's Pillar is a dreary waste, dotted with curiously carved
structures. This is the Mohammedan cemetery. As in most Oriental towns,
the cemetery is at the west end of the town, as the Mohammedans consider
that the quarter of the horizon in which the sun sets is the most suitable
spot for their burying-places.