_The Town of the Tent_
IN the view from the Citadel one sees an essentially mediæval city, but
of all the Arab buildings there is not one that in its present state
dates back to the Arab conquest. Before the Muslims invaded Egypt in 640
there was no Cairo, and strictly speaking there was none till three
centuries later than that, when the Greek general laid the foundations
of the palace-city of the Fátimid caliphs and it received the name el-
Káhira, which Europeans twisted into Cahere, Caire, and Cairo. But this
is merely a pedantry of terms, and one might as well restrict London to
the City and refuse the name to Westminster and Mayfair. There was a
Muslim capital from the days of the conquest, and though it was not
called Cairo it was close to the present city, which is merely an
expansion of the original town. The history of its growth will appear as
we study its several stages and monuments, and for the moment a bare
enumeration of the successive foundations will suffice. First rose the
original Arab settlement, Fustát, the Town of the Tent, in 641. To this
was added in 751 a north-eastern suburb, the official residence of the
governors and their troops, hence named el-‘Áskar, “the Cantonments.” A
new royal faubourg, or small city, was built still more to the north-
east by the first independent Muslim King of Egypt, Ibn-Tulún, about
860, and was known by the name of el-Katái‘, “the Wards,” because it was
divided into separate quarters for different nations and classes. So far
the three towns were practically contiguous, and ‘Askar and Katái‘ were
but the Chelsea and St James’s of the City, the commercial capital,
Fustát.
The fourth foundation was still further to the north-east, and a
considerable vacant space was left between it and the almost destroyed
faubourg of Katái‘, in order to preserve the safety and seclusion of the
sacred caliphs for whom it was built in 969. This last was the true
Cairo, el-Káhira, but it was not the commercial and residential capital,
any more than ‘Askar or Katái‘ had been. Fustát, resting on the Nile
bank, was still the emporium of trade and the metropolis alike of
business and of culture, whilst Káhira was but a palace, a barrack, and
a seat of government. When the mediæval chroniclers, such as William of
Tyre, write of “Macer”—meaning Masr (properly Misr) the usual Arabic
name both for Egypt and for its capital—they refer not to Káhira but to
Fustát, or as it was commonly called Misr-el-Fustát. The Emír or Caliph
or Sultan might dwell and rule at any suburb he pleased to build, but
the old capital remained the real metropolis throughout. There the Kádis
sat in judgment in the “Old Mosque”; there the coins of the realm were
issued; and there resided the bulk of the citizens who were not attached
to the palace. It was only when Fustát was deliberately burned in 1168,
to save it from giving cover to the Crusaders, that Káhira took its
place as the real capital as well as the official centre of Egypt.
Saladin was the creator of Cairo as we know it. It was he who planned
the wall that was to enclose not only Káhira but the Citadel and what
remained of Katái‘ and Fustát, and from his time began the building over
the space intervening between the Citadel and the palace of Káhira which
gradually filled up the Cairo which we now see. The growth of the city
thus consisted mainly of three successive expansions towards the north-
east, accompanied by decay of abandoned suburbs, and ending in a general
enclosure of the chief inhabited portions. Since the days of Saladin,
whatever remained of Fustát has vanished, and only a straggling village
called Masr-el-Atíka or “Old Masr,” and known to Europeans as “Old
Cairo,” has risen near its site, which is easily traced by the immense
rubbish-heaps. On the other hand a new town has grown up between Káhira
and the Nile under European influences, but with this, pleasant winter
city as it is, the Mediæval Town has nothing to do.
The narrative of the Arab invasion of Egypt is in many points
exceedingly obscure, owing to the circumstances that the Arabs did not
begin to write history till more than two centuries later, and that our
only almost contemporary authority, John, bishop of Nikiu, has come down
to us in a corrupt translation. The Arabs under the command of ‘Amr ibn
el-‘Asy entered Egypt not more than 4000 strong in December 639, in the
caliphate of ‘Omar, the second successor of the prophet Mohammad; and
after taking Pelusium and Bilbeys by siege, and fighting a battle with
the Romans at Umm-Duneyn, a suburb which stood near the present ‘Abdin
palace, attacked the city of “Misr” or “Babylon of Egypt.” This city was
a northern extension or successor of the decayed but then still existing
Egyptian capital Memphis, about twelve miles distant from the present
Cairo, and had grown up under the protection of the Roman fortress of
Babylon. It was evidently strongly defended, for the Arab general had to
summon reinforcements, till his army mustered 12,000, before he could
attack it.
“‘Amr divided his forces into three corps, one of which he posted to the
north of Babylon; the second was stationed at Tendunyas [probably the
Umm-Duneyn of the Arabic writers], and the third withdrew northwards to
Heliopolis, in the hope of tempting the Romans out of their
fortifications, upon which the other two corps were to fall on their
rear or flank. The manœuvre succeeded. The Romans marched out of their
fortifications, and attacked the Saracens at Heliopolis, but, being
themselves taken in rear by the other divisions, were routed and driven
to the Nile, when they took to their boats and fled down the river. Upon
this the Muslims occupied Tendunyas, the garrison of which had perished
in the battle, except 300 men, who shut themselves up in the fort,
whence they retired by boat to Nikiu. The taking of Tendunyas was
evidently followed by, or synonymous with, the taking of the whole city
of Misr, except its citadel, which was blockaded; for John of Nikiu,
from whose almost contemporary chronicle this account is taken, mentions
no subsequent siege or conquest of the city of Misr, but only the
reduction of the fortress.”[3]
Whatever this city of Misr or Tendunyas may have been, it vanishes from
history as soon as it is conquered. The last we hear of it is in the
treaty of capitulation granted by ‘Amr, which ran as follows:—
“In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, this is the
amnesty which ‘Amr ibn el-‘Asy granted to the people of Misr, as to
themselves, their religion, their goods, their churches and crosses,
their lands and waters: nothing of these shall be meddled with or
minished; the Nubians shall not be permitted to dwell among them. And
the people of Misr, if they enter into this treaty of peace, shall pay
the poll-tax, when the inundation of their river has subsided, fifty
millions. And each one of them is responsible for [acts of violence
that] robbers among them may commit. And as for those who will not enter
into this treaty, the sum of the tax shall be diminished [to the rest]
in proportion, but we have no responsibility towards such. If the rise
of the Nile is less than usual, the tax shall be reduced in proportion
to the decrease. Romans and Nubians who enter into this treaty shall be
treated in the like manner. And whoso rejects [it] and chooses to go
away, he is protected until he reach a place of safety or leave our
kingdom. The collection of the taxes shall be by thirds, one third at
each time. For [sureties for] this covenant stand the security and
warranty of God, the warranty of His Prophet, and the warranty of the
Caliph, the commander of the faithful, and the warranty of the [true]
believers. . . . Witnessed by ez-Zubeyr and his sons ‘Abdallah and
Mohammad, and written by Wardan.”
The Arab historians connect this treaty—which has all the appearance of
being an authentic document, literally copied—expressly with the
surrender of the city of Misr after the battle of Heliopolis; but as
Misr means Egypt as well as its capital the document itself only proves
that the Arab conqueror accorded very generous terms to the people of
Egypt; it says nothing explicit as to the town of Misr, the name of
which was shortly to be transferred to Fustát, whilst the place thereof
was known no more. The only explanation seems to be that the Egyptian
city decayed as the Arab town grew, and that the population migrated to
the neighbouring and more prosperous settlement. The remains of walls
south of “Old Misr” may represent part of the site. The disappearance of
an Egyptian town is unhappily far from unprecedented. Memphis itself has
vanished, all save a few traces of walls and fallen statues; “hundred-
gated” Thebes survives only in her temples; and the reason is that the
ancient Egyptian built his abode of perishable sun-dried brick, and
lavished his massive stone work only upon the tombs of the great dead
and the temples of the immortal gods.
Whatever became of the city, a fortress of Babylon stands to this day.
Its reduction cost the Arabs a seven months’ siege. The battle of
Heliopolis was won in the late summer of 640, and it was not till April
641 that the fortress was conquered. A leading part in the surrender of
the place is ascribed to a mysterious personage, “the Mukawkis,” as the
Arabs termed the governor of Egypt.[4] According to the Arab traditions
it was he who negotiated the treaty cited above, which secured to the
Egyptians freedom of religion and security of life, and when the
Byzantine emperor Heraclius repudiated the treaty, the Mukawkis stuck to
his word and threw in his lot with the Arabs, whose valour and simple
earnestness deeply impressed him. When his envoys returned from an
embassy to the Saracens’ camp, he asked them what manner of men the
Muslims were, and they answered, “We found a people who love death
better than life, and set humility above pride, who have no desire or
enjoyment in this world, who sit in the dust and eat upon their knees,
but frequently and thoroughly wash, and humble themselves in prayer; a
people in whom the stronger can scarce be distinguished from the weaker,
or the master from the slave.” Such a character was new to the
Egyptians, who had long suffered under the corruption and luxury of the
Eastern Roman Empire, and, whatever part the Mukawkis personally may
have played in what has been called the betrayal of Christian Egypt, it
is certain that the population abetted the invaders.
Although Christianity had been the official religion of Egypt since the
Edict of Theodosius in 379, there was still a strong leaven of the old
local cults, and, more important still, there was a vigorous tendency to
nationalism both of church and state. The rule of Byzantium had never
been gracious to the Egyptian province; the Orthodox Church had been
tyrannous; and when at the Council of Chalcedon in 451 the Eutychian
heresy maintained by the Egyptian bishops was formally condemned, the
schism became irrevocable. From that time forward there were two
churches in Egypt, the State Church (or Orthodox Greek), supported from
Constantinople, and known as the Melekite or “Royalist,” and the
national church, afterwards called Jacobite, and generally known as the
Coptic Church. Copt is etymologically the same word as Egyptian (Greek,
Aiguptios; Arabic, Kibt and Kubt; English, Copt), and the Coptic Church
means nothing less than the Church of Egypt as separated by the adoption
of the heresy of Eutyches. The Egyptian Christians were as much Copts
before as after the Council of Chalcedon; but it was their devotion to a
metaphysical definition, which very few of them could possibly
understand, that made them a distinct church, and to this they owe at
once their misfortunes and their historical interest. By their adhesion
to the first Nicæan doctrine of the single nature of Christ they exposed
themselves to persecution and courted isolation, and sharing in none of
the developments of the other churches, they preserved in their scanty
and neglected community, unchanged for nearly fifteen hundred years, the
ancient tradition and ritual of the fifth century. It was their
implacable hatred of the Royalists that threw them into the arms of the
Muslim invaders. By the advice of their exiled patriarch they helped the
Arabs from the moment of their setting foot upon Egyptian soil. Eager to
rid themselves of Byzantine rule, and still more of the Royalist
hierarchy, they embraced they knew not what as a preferable alternative;
and after the Mukawkis, aided, according to tradition, by a _catholicos_
(probably Cyrus, Royalist patriarch of Alexandria), had succeeded in
obtaining a generous amnesty from the Arab general, the Copts rendered
every aid to the Muslims, assisted them with labour at bridge-making,
and brought them supplies. They soon discovered that they had only
exchanged masters, but the Arab, despite his haughty assumption of
superiority and his occasional outbursts of persecution, was a gentler
tyrant than the Roman of the Lower Empire.
Deprived of all support from the population, the Roman garrison of
Babylon surrendered in April 641. The Delta was quickly overrun, and the
Romans fell back upon Alexandria, which, distracted by factions and
deprived of competent leaders, yielded to panic, and eagerly accepted
‘Amr’s magnanimous terms. By the surrender of the Roman capital in
October 641, the Arab conquest of Egypt was complete. There was no
further resistance worthy the name. The Muslims spread over the land up
to the first cataract of the Nile, and Egypt became a province of the
caliphate.
On his return from Alexandria ‘Amr founded the Town of the Tent. The
great port on the Mediterranean was no suitable capital for Arab tribes,
whose inexperience magnified the terrors of the deep. Alexandria,
moreover, was liable at the period of Nile inundation to be cut off from
the centre of Arab power at Medina, and the caliph ‘Omar, not yet
inspired by dreams of a vast Muslim empire, was chiefly anxious to keep
in touch with the army of Egypt. ‘Amr indeed wished to retain Alexandria
as the capital. “Behold an abode made ready for us,” he said. But when
the caliph heard of it, he asked, “Will there be water between me and
the army of the Muslims?” and the answer was, “Yes, O commander of the
faithful, there will be the Nile,” so he set his face against
Alexandria. He regarded the new conquest as a barrack rather than a
colony. ‘Amr accordingly was bidden to choose a more central position,
and found it some ten miles north of the remains of the ancient capital
of Memphis, on the site of the camp which lay before the castle of
Babylon. An old canal, the Amnis Trajanus, had formerly connected
Babylon with the Red Sea at Suez, running past Bilbeys and the Crocodile
Lake, and this was immediately cleared of silt and reopened, so that
tribute and corn were sent by water to Arabia, and close relations were
thus maintained with the caliph.
The Town of the Tent owes its name to a pretty legend, which may very
probably be true. When ‘Amr led his Arabs against the old capital of
Egypt, he pitched his tent on the spot where his mosque now stands.
After the surrender of the castle of Babylon he marched upon Alexandria;
but when the soldiers went to strike his tent, they found that a dove
had laid her eggs within and was sitting on her nest. ‘Amr at once
declared the spot sacred, and ordered them not to disturb her; and when
on the return from the conquest of Alexandria the army set about
building quarters for themselves, ‘Amr bade them settle around his still
standing tent, and the first Arab city of Egypt was ever afterwards
known as el-Fustát, “the Tent,” or Misr-el-Fustát, or simply Misr. The
whole space between the Nile and the hill Mukattam, on a spur of which
stands the present Citadel, was bare at that time. There was nothing but
“waste land and sown fields,” and no buildings except some churches or
convents, and the Roman fortress of Babylon, or Babelyún, known to the
Arabs to this day as the Kasr-esh-Shema‘ or “Castle of the Beacon,”
because (says the Topographer, el-Makrízy) “this Kasr was illuminated on
the summit with candles [in Arabic _shema‘_] on the first night of every
month,” to serve as a kalendar; but it is possible, as Dr Butler has
suggested, that the name is merely a corruption of Kasr-el-_Khemi_, the
“Castle of Egypt,” and that the beacon story was invented to explain
it.[5]
Why ‘Amr did not occupy the old city of Misr we do not know: everything
connected with that vanished town is a mystery. Elsewhere the Arabs had
no scruple about taking possession of older cities, such as Damascus and
Edessa; but in Egypt they preferred to take fresh ground. Misr may have
been too small; or it is possible that the caliph’s orders that they
were not to acquire property and take root in the country led to the
original occupation of the bare stretch of land between Babylon and the
Mukattam hills. The first settlement undoubtedly resembled a temporary
camp rather than a city. They wanted plenty of space to separate the
various tribes who composed the Arab army, and who, despite their Muslim
brotherhood, were liable to recall their ancient jealousies. The site
they chose was ample and almost unencumbered. The tract was known as the
three Hamras or “red” spots[6]—the Nearer, the Middle, and the Further
Hamra—apparently from the red standard which was set up in the midst.
The Arab clans divided the three tracts amongst them and laid out their
settlements, from the fortress to where the mosque of Ibn-Tulún now
stands. In the midst was the general’s house, and close to it rose the
first mosque built in Egypt, the “Mosque of Conquest,” the “Crown of
Mosques,” as it was proudly called, but known later as the “Old Mosque,”
and now as the Mosque of ‘Amr. It was originally a very plain oblong
room, about 200 feet long by 56 wide, built of rough brick, unplastered,
with a low roof supported probably by a few columns, with holes for
light. There was no minaret, no niche for prayer, no decoration, no
pavement. Even the pulpit which ‘Amr set up was removed when the caliph
wrote in reproach, “Is it not enough for thee to stand whilst the
Muslims sit at thy feet?” For it was the duty of the conqueror to recite
the prayers and preach the Friday sermon in this humble building. It
soon became too small for the growing population of Fustát, and was
enlarged in 673 by taking in part of the house of ‘Amr; and at the same
time raised stations—the germ of the minaret—were erected at the corners
for the muézzins to recite the call to prayer. Twenty-five years later
the entire mosque was demolished by a later governor who rebuilt it on a
larger scale. So many and thorough have been the repairs and
reconstructions that there is probably not a foot of the original
building now in existence. What we see to-day is practically the mosque
rebuilt in 827 by ‘Abdallah ibn Táhir, and restored by Murád Bey in
1798, just before he engaged the French in the “battle of the Pyramids”
at Embába. It is four times the size of the original mosque, and
different in every respect.[7]
The “Old Mosque,” as the Topographer calls it, was intensely revered in
early times. It was there that the chief Kady held his court, and
learned men congregated in its arcades. It was a rallying point for
orthodoxy in times of schism and obtrusive heresies. When Fustát was
burned in 1168 the mosque escaped, though much injured, and Saladin
restored it; “where he found wood and stone he left marble.” But it was
as hopeless to maintain its popularity, when the town it belonged to was
in ashes, as it would be to induce the dwellers in Belgravia to attend
the services at Bow Bells. Fustát mostly in ruins, the congregation
dispersed, and the mosque of ‘Amr fell upon evil days. Ibn-Sa‘íd, a
Moorish traveller of the thirteenth century, found the sacred building
covered with cobwebs, and scrawled over with the ribald _graffiti_ of
loafers and vagabonds, the remains of whose victuals littered the floor.
There were few worshippers, and much unseemliness. “Musicians, and ape-
leaders, and conjurers, and mountebanks, and dancing-girls,” says the
historian Gabárty in the eighteenth century, desecrated the court, and
so decrepit did the building become that even these abandoned it. If
Murád Bey had not been “anxious about his soul,” for very good reasons,
and made peace with his conscience by spending some of his ill-gotten
gains upon the pious work of restoration, the “Crown of Mosques” would
have disappeared altogether. In the early part of the nineteenth century
it was still a favourite place of prayer for the people of Cairo on the
last Friday of the Fast of Ramadán. “It is believed that God will
receive with particular favour the prayers which are offered up in this
ancient mosque; therefore, when the Nile is tardy in rising, and the
people fear a scanty inundation and a consequent scarcity, the principal
Sheykhs and Imáms and learned and devout Muslims of the metropolis are
ordered to betake themselves to the mosque of ‘Amr to pray for an
increase of the river, together with the priests of the various
Christian churches and their congregations, and likewise the Jews; each
of these persuasions arranged by itself, without the mosque. Public
prayers were thus offered up for rain in this consecrated spot by
Muslims, Christians and Jews, in a time of unusual drought about twenty
years ago [_i.e._ 1825-8], and on the following day it rained.”[8]
[Illustration: COURT OF THE MOSQUE OF ‘AMR]
The outside of the oldest mosque in Egypt is not impressive. Among the
rubbish-hills that mark the site of the Town of the Tent, its long grey
walls, without windows or the least attempt at ornament, look dreary,
and the two plain minarets are equally unpretentious. But within,
despite decay and the loneliness of neglect, the vast empty court of
some forty thousand square feet, surrounded by colonnades, and the
forest of columns supporting the roof of the east end, the special place
of prayer, wholly dominate all mean details. Crowded with worshippers in
the rhythmic bowings of the Muslim ritual it must have been a wonderful
and solemn vision. The arches are of various ages, and the columns,
taken from churches, show the most diverse capitals, not always put the
right side up; the arcades do not run parallel to the walls, like
cloisters round a cathedral close, but open at right angles into the
court. Wooden beams stretch from column to column to support hanging
lamps, of which eighteen thousand were lighted every night in former
times, and the effect in the long vistas must have been superb. Those
nights of illumination are long over, and the conqueror’s mosque is a
melancholy ruin, the loneliness of which appeals to the imagination to
people it with the zealous groups of scholars and divines, fanatics and
doctors learned in the law, fakírs and holy men, who once bowed before
its deserted _kibla_. Not even the mark of the blessed Prophet’s
_kurbág_ on the grey marble of the pillar, which, urged by the
blow—despite all considerations of chronology—flew through the air from
Mekka when ‘Amr was building the mosque, nor the twin test columns
between which only true believers can squeeze (and even a Turkish
soldier stuck and almost died), avail to attract worshippers to the old
shrine except on very special occasions. Yet it is prophesied that the
fall of the mosque of ‘Amr will be the sign of the downfall of Islám,
and it is strange that a superstitious people are not more careful of
their omens.
The original mosque of the Arab conqueror has gone, but at least its
representative stands on the hallowed site. One cannot say as much for
Fustát, the Town of the Tent, which he founded. Whatever may remain of
this great city, which was the capital and the river-port of Egypt for
five centuries, lies hidden under the wilderness of sand-hills which
cover the débris and kitchen-middens of the mediæval town. Here, after a
strong wind has stirred the sand, you may sometimes chance to pick up
curious fragments of glass and pottery, Roman lamps, coins, glass-bottle
stamps with inscriptions recording the names of eighth century
governors, and such-like relics of what was once Fustát. Of its houses,
its governors’ palaces, its baths and schools, not a stone or brick
remains. The “granaries of Joseph” certainly date back at least to that
later Joseph, Saladin, for Benjamin of Tudela saw them in 1170; but
Masr-el-Atíka, or “Old Cairo,” is built on land which was covered by the
Nile in the days when Fustát was the capital. The rest is desolation. We
shall catch many glimpses of its history in chapters to come, and read
the descriptions of it written by Persian and Moorish travellers from
the east and the west, but such descriptions do not enable us to realize
the vanished Arab city.
One monument, however, of the age of the conquest still survives, but it
is not Arab. The Roman fortress of Babylon, the “Castle of the Beacon,”
stands where it once overlooked the Muslims’ tents and saw the Arab
capital growing up beneath its walls. To understand why it was called
Babylon, or as some say Bab-li-On, “the gate of On,” we must go to
Mataríya, a few miles north of Cairo, where stands a solitary obelisk,
sole relic of On or Heliopolis, the “City of the Sun.” In the plain of
Mataríya, before this lonely stone, the Turks fought the final battle
that won Cairo from the Mamlúks in 1517, and here Kléber gained his
victory in 1800 over the Turks. There stood the famous temple of On of
which Potipherah, the father of Joseph’s wife, was priest; here Pianchi,
the Ethiopian priest-king, eight centuries B.C., washed at the “Fountain
of the Sun,” and made offerings of white bulls, milk, perfume, incense,
and all kinds of sweet-scented woods, and entering the temple “saw his
father Ra [the sun-god] in the sanctuary.” Heliopolis was the university
of the most ancient civilization in the world, the forerunner of all the
schools of Europe. Here, in all probability, Moses was instructed by the
priests of Ra in “all the wisdom of the Egyptians”; here, too, Herodotus
cross-questioned the same priesthood with varying success; here Plato
came to study, and Eudoxus the mathematician to learn astronomy; and
here Strabo was shown the houses where the famous Greeks had lived. Of
this seat of learning and focus of religion nothing but the obelisk
remains. “The images of Beth-Shemesh” (the “House of the Sun”) have
indeed been “broken,” and “the houses of the Egyptians’ gods” have been
“burned with fire.”[9]
Beside the obelisk is an ancient sycamore, riven with age and hacked
with numberless names, beneath which tradition hath it that the Holy
Family rested in their flight into Egypt, and it is hence known as the
“Virgin’s Tree.” Near by is a spring of fresh water—a rare sight in this
brackish land—which, it is said, became sweet because the Bambino was
bathed there. From the spots where the drops fell from his swaddling
clothes, after they, too, had been washed in this sacred spring, sprang
up balsam-trees, which, it was believed, flourished nowhere else. There
is no evidence for these fancies, and, of course, the sycamore is but a
descendant of the supposed original, as it was not planted till after
1672. But the circumstances that a temple was built by the Hebrew Onias
for the worship of his countrymen near here, and that Jewish gardeners
were brought here for the culture of the balsam-trees, give the tale a
certain fitness.
Heliopolis is no more, but its guardian fortress, the “gate of On” still
defies time and the restorers’ hands, and the name of Babylon of Egypt,
applied to the capital (Fustát) as well as the fort, appears frequently
in the mediæval chronicles and romances. When Richard Cœur de Lion
defeated Saladin, the romance relates,
“The cheff Sawdon off Hethenysse
To Babyloyne was flowen, I wysse.”
Whether or not there is any foundation for the tradition reported by
Strabo and Diodorus that the castle was first built by exiles from the
greater Babylon of Chaldæa, the present fortress dates from the third or
possibly the second century of our era. The exterior is imposing, though
the walls have been injured, and the sand has buried their feet. The
greater part of the oblong outline is still sufficiently
distinguishable, and five bastions and two circular towers are well
preserved. The walls are built in the usual Roman manner, five courses
of stone alternating with three of brick—the origin, probably, of the
striped red and yellow decoration of the Muslim mosques and houses—and
their massive aspect even now makes one realize how much the capture of
such a stronghold must have meant to the early Arabs.
[Illustration: GATE OF KASR-ESH-SHEMA‘]
When we enter the stronghold the strange character of the fortress grows
upon us. Passing through narrow lanes, narrower and darker and dustier
even than the back alleys of Cairo, we are struck by the deadly
stillness of the place. The high houses that shut in the street have
little of the lattice ornament that adorns the thoroughfares of Cairo;
the grated windows are small and few, and but for an occasional heavy
door half open, and here and there the sound of a voice in the recesses
of the houses, we might question whether the fortress was inhabited at
all. Nothing, certainly, indicates that these plain walls contain six
sumptuous churches, with their dependent chapels, each of which is full
of carvings, pictures, vestments and furniture, which in their way
cannot be matched. A Coptic church is like a Mohammedan harím—it must
not appear from the outside. Just as the studiously plain exterior of
many a Cairo house reveals nothing of the latticed court within,
surrounded by rooms where inlaid dados, tiles, carved and painted
ceilings, and magnificent carpets, glow in the soft light of the stained
windows, so a Coptic church makes no outward show. High walls hide
everything from view. The Copts are shy of visitors, and the plain
exteriors are a sufficient proof of their desire to escape that notice
which in bygone days aroused cupidity and fanaticism.
After passing through a strong gateway, and traversing a vestibule, or
ascending some stairs, you find yourself in a small but beautifully
finished basilica, gazing at a carved choir-screen that any cathedral in
England might envy. In the dim light you see rows of valiant saints
looking down at you from above the sanctuary and over the screens, and
great golden texts in Coptic and Arabic, to the glory of God; while
above, the arches of the triforium over the aisles show where other
treasures of art are probably to be found. The general plan of a Coptic
church is basilican, but there are many points of wide divergence from
the strict pattern; the Byzantine feature of the dome is almost
universal, and sometimes the whole building is roofed over with a
cluster of a dozen domes. The church consists of a nave and side aisles,
waggon-vaulted (exactly like the early Irish churches, and like no
others), and very rarely has transepts, or approaches the cruciform
shape. The sparse marble columns that divide the nave from the aisles
generally return round the west end, and form a narthex or counterchoir,
where is sunk the Epiphany tank, once the scene of complete immersions,
but now used only for the feet-washing of Maundy Thursday. The church is
also divided cross-wise into three principal sections, besides the
narthex. The rearmost is the women’s place, whom the judicious Copts put
behind the men, and thereby prevent any disturbance of devotions much
more effectually than if the two sexes were ranged side by side as in
some Western churches. A lattice-work screen divides the women’s portion
from the men’s, which is always much larger and more richly decorated,
and the men’s division is similarly partitioned off from the choir by
another screen, while the altars, three in number, are placed each in a
separate apse, surmounted by a complete (not semicircular) dome, and
veiled by the most gorgeous screen of all, formed of ivory and ebony
crosses and geometrical panels, superbly carved with arabesques, and
surmounted by pictures and golden texts in Coptic and Arabic
letters.[10] During the celebration the central folding doors are thrown
back, the silver-embroidered curtain is withdrawn, and the high altar is
displayed to the adoring congregation, just as it is in the impressive
ceremonial of St Isaac’s cathedral at St Petersburg. The carved doors
and the silver-thread curtain, the swinging lamps and pendent ostrich
eggs, prepare us for something more gorgeous than the nearly cubical
plastered brick or stone altar, with its silk covering, and the
invariable recess in the east side, which originally had a more mystic
signification, but is now only used for the burying of the cross in a
bed of rose-leaves on Good Friday, whence it will be disinterred on
Easter-day. The Coptic altar stands detached from the wall of the
sanctuary, which is often coated with slabs of coloured marble, like the
dados one sees in the mosques, or with mosaic of the peculiar Egyptian
style; while above are painted panels or frescoes representing the
twelve apostles, with Christ in the midst in the act of benediction.
Over the altar spreads a canopy or baldacchino, which is also richly
painted with figures of angels. The central sanctuary with its altar is
divided off from the side altars by lattice screens.
A curious part of the furniture is the Ark, which holds the chalice
during the rite of consecration; and scarcely less interesting is the
flabellum, or fan for keeping gnats off the chalice, which is often
exquisitely fashioned of repoussé silver. Similar fans are represented
in the Irish Book of Kells. There is never a crucifix, but reliquaries
are not uncommon, though their place is not on the altar. The Coptic
church forbids the worship of relics, but every church has its bolster
full of them, and the devout believer attaches considerable importance
to their curative properties. Sometimes the most beautiful object in
metal-work in a Coptic church is the silver textus-case—corresponding to
the Irish _cumhdach_—in which the copy of the Gospels is supposed to be
sealed up, though generally a few leaves alone remain inside. It is
often a fine example of silver chasing and repoussé work, and is
reverently brought from the altar where it reposes to the officiating
deacon, who places it on the lectern while he reads from another copy.
The lectern itself is a favourite subject for decoration. That from the
Mu‘állaka church, now in the Coptic cathedral at Cairo, is covered with
the beautiful inlaid and carved panelling which is familiar in the doors
and pulpits of mosques.
Of the six churches contained within the fortress of Babylon, three are
of the highest interest; for, though the Greek church of St George,
perched on the top of the round tower, is finely decorated with Damascus
and Rhodian tiles and silver lamps, the Roman tower itself, with its
central well, great staircase, and curious radiating chambers, is more
interesting than the church above it. Of the three principal Coptic
churches, that of St Sergius, or Abu-Sarga, is the most often visited,
on account of the tradition that it was in its crypt that the Holy
Family rested when they journeyed to the land of Egypt. The crypt is
certainly many centuries older than the church above it, which dates
from the tenth century. The church itself is notable for a fine screen,
and close to it a remarkable specimen of early Coptic figure-carving,
with representations of the nativity and of warrior saints in high
relief. Another example of this style of deep carving exists in the
triforium of the church of Saint Barbara.
Besides Abu-Sarga and Kadísa-Barbára, there remains a third and very
interesting Coptic church to be mentioned. This is suspended between two
bastions of the Roman wall, over a gate with a classical pediment and a
sculptured eagle. It is called from its position the Mu‘állaka or
“hanging” church. It is remarkable in many ways, partly for being the
oldest of the Babylon churches, and partly on account of the entire
absence of domes. The Mu‘állaka has other peculiarities: it has
absolutely no choir—the daïs in front of the shallow eastern apses has
to serve the purpose; and it is double aisled on the north side.—The
carved screen in the north aisle has the unique property of being filled
in with thin ivory panels, which must have shone with a rosy tint when
the lamps behind were lighted. The sculptured pulpit is especially
beautiful; it stands on “fifteen delicate Saracenic columns, arranged in
seven pairs, with a leader.” Not the least curious part about the
“suspended” church is its hanging garden, where the bold experiment of
planting palms in mid air has succeeded in perpetuating the tradition
that it was here that the Virgin first broke fast with a meal of dates
on her arrival in Egypt.
This is not the place to enter into the doctrine and ritual of the
Coptic church. The appalling Lenten fast of the Copts, which lasts
fifty-five days, and involves total abstinence from food from sunrise to
sunset during each of those days, no doubt suggested the only less
rigorous Muslim fast of Ramadán. The Coptic sacrament of matrimony has
certain elements of the grotesque in it; but most of the ceremonial of
the church possesses a dignity and the sweet savour of antiquity which
must redeem any minor absurdities. No one can stand unmoved in a Coptic
church during the celebration of the Mass, or hear the worshippers shout
with one voice, just as they did some fifteen hundred years ago, the
loud response, “I believe This is the Truth,” without emotion. Through
fiery persecution they have clung to their truth with a heroism that is
only the more wonderful when we consider their weakness; and however
partial and ignorant their interpretation of truth, we cannot withhold
the respect that is the due of those who have come out of great
tribulation and remained steadfast to their faith.