Barrage — Cotton-boats on the Nile — The bazaars at Atfeh — Interior of
a coffee shop — Villages on the banks of the Mahmoudieh Canal — Nile
locomotion — Illuminations — An Eastern scene — A striking contrast.
Having settled everything to the satisfaction of all parties most
concerned, and bade adieus to all friends, we embarked on board the
‘Eagle’ for Alexandria early on the 28th of February. The next morning
we arrived at one of Mehemet Ali’s great works, which unlike most of
them has been continued by his successors; and like all of them is
vehemently disliked by the people.
This is the Barrage. It was commenced by a French engineer, and its
object is to dam up the Nile by means of half a mile of arches, with a
sluice in each; this will make the river, it is thought, rise
considerably above this place, and enable the Government to keep all the
canals and water-wheels full when the Nile is low. But there are persons
who assert that the scheme cannot succeed; that experiments made with
such large rivers have never answered, and that in the mean time the
navigation is impeded and rendered dangerous.
There seems some foundation for the last objection, for the eight middle
arches not having been completed, a kind of cataract has been formed,
which boats going down are obliged to be cautious how they shoot, and
others coming up must be towed through with a great deal of difficulty,
unless the wind be directly north, and very powerful.
It is undoubtedly a handsome piece of work, consisting of about forty
red-brick arches, corniced with stones, with large piers on both sides
for some distance. It is supposed to be of sufficient strength to resist
the strongest and most sudden inundations. We observed three or four
steam-engines at work, planting and pumping.
Favoured by a strong breeze from the south we made considerable
progress. We had a simoom loaded with dust, and the air was so
oppressively hot as at times to create a difficulty of breathing.
Village succeeded village, and the river was alive with cotton-boats,
laden almost up to the masts with well-packed “Egyptians,” whilst crowds
of men, women, and children lay here and there among the bales, their
gay blue robes and red tarboushes creating an effect that artists would
gladly have seized upon.
At Atfeh I landed and visited another bazaar. They are always amusing,
and always in some degree different. Here you meet with a shop full of
goods from Sheffield, Manchester, Leeds, Staffordshire, Lyons, and
Nantz. The owner sits in the midst of them; a man generally about fifty,
with a long white beard, smoking a long pipe with an amber mouth-piece.
Very few persons enter, but when they do he gains much money, as he
sells at about fifty per cent. profit. Besides he possesses the only
scales in the village, and is considered an authority on matters of
exchange, the value of money, &c., and as a natural consequence is often
money-changer and banker. When he goes away, a donkey richly housed is
brought to him, his eldest son lifts him on the saddle, his second shuts
up the shop and takes charge of the money; and then the old fellow rides
gravely home.
The next shop is a baker’s—his floor and a projecting stall in the
street are covered with small round loaves, like an English tea-cake in
shape and appearance; but if you buy one, which you can do for five
paras, and taste it, you will find that it is like with a difference, as
the flavour is very bitter, and it is made without salt. A crowd stands
round bargaining and disputing with the owner, who smokes a glass-mouth-
pieced chibouque and looks as if he did not care whether customers came
or not. The fact is, he knows that he is the only baker in the place,
and that Arabs must eat.
The next shop is probably kept by an old woman, whose blue veil is hung
with nine piastre pieces, and from whose ears are suspended plenty of
the same ornaments. She sells rice, cotton, corn, durra, wheat, and rye;
her stock is small, in fact, it is all contained in little canvass bags,
not unlike the sample-bags used in the Corn Exchange in London.
Afterwards, you arrive at a shop where a kind of date preserve is sold
in large slices, which smells a great deal better than it tastes. A
still more seductive smell attracts you to the next shop, which is
smoking fiercely. On the counter, gridirons are ranged over charcoal
fires, upon which a quantity of little rolls of beef and mutton are
grilling; and several Arabs, having passed by the baker’s, are here
regaling themselves with bread and kabobs.
But who approaches with the cry of “Moira,” which causes every one to
rush eagerly towards him? It is a man carrying a large tin vessel on his
shoulders, with a spout under his arm, and a little tin pot in his hand.
He is the waterman. He drives a singular kind of trade. Every one rushes
to have a drink, but his thirst gratified, appears oblivious of the
obligation of payment. At first, I thought he was employed by
Government—though it is rarely so thoughtful of the wants of the
populace—but on closer examination, I saw that a rich man invariably
paid, and then the waterman’s poorest customers are justified in
demanding a drink for nothing. I now could understand the anxiety which
I had observed in the faces of the thirsty throng whenever the man
politely invited me to drink.
A little further on, we came to the coffee-shop, where every one, having
had his breakfast, lingers till prayer-time. This man seems rich—he
calls for a narghileh and coffee; that man must be poor—he modestly asks
for a light, and then fills his own pipe from his own bag. One only
calls for coffee, another only for a pipe, while a third calls for
nothing, and is thankful if the end of a pipe is offered him by a
charitable stranger. All are welcome, whether they order much, little,
or nothing; from which fact some English shopkeepers might take a hint.
We voyaged quietly down the Mahmoudieh Canal, now and then enlivened by
a collision with heavily-laden corn-boats coming down, or coal-boats
going up, and occassionally tossed about by some steamer running between
Alexandria and Cairo. There are numerous villages on the banks of the
canal, but they are the most wretched I have beheld in Egypt, and can
always be scented at a distance, in consequence of their using a fuel of
dung, straw and mud, in little round cakes, which they plaster on the
walls, that they may dry in the sun—producing a very curious and a very
disagreeable effect.
On approaching Alexandria, the canal assumed much the appearance of a
river, after we had passed where two walls separate it from Lake
Mariotis on one side, and the sea on the other. It was thronged with
boats. There was a constant succession of country houses, where gay
English nursery-maids, with fine healthy English children, were seen
playing in the gardens in front of which lay richly ornamented boats
with Union Jacks, or Crescent and Star flags flying aloft.
Every species of Nile locomotion appeared to have been reserved for us:
we had sailed with our large flowing sails, we had rowed with our
shouting Arabs, and we had been towed along in that drowsy state which
Nile tracking alone can produce in perfection. But Alexandria is at last
in sight, and its innumerable towers and solitary Pompey’s Pillar,
assure us that all our travelling miseries are at an end.
On landing at the end of the canal, the first spectacle that satisfied
us that we were within the influence of European civilization was, I am
somewhat ashamed to say, two English sailors perfectly drunk. This
reminded me of the old story of the shipwrecked mariner, who, on
crawling up a rocky bank from the raging waves, hailed with
inexpressible delight that emblem of Christian enlightenment—a gallows.
I went from our hotel in the evening, accompanied by numerous Americans,
to see the grand illuminations, got up to commemorate the abolition of
the poll-tax by the Pasha. The Arab and Turkish bazaars were very well
lighted: in the latter I counted fifty-seven glass chandeliers,
averaging twenty-seven lights each.
The shops were handsomely decorated; costly mats and rich Turkey carpets
hung around as arras, covering both the goods and the floor, while silk
and gold lace cushions surrounded a little table bearing a fine silver
narghileh. There were pipes, coffee, and negus in each shop, with
servants in waiting; and prominent above all, the master receiving his
friends.
I made acquaintance with one of these merchants, and while smoking a
pysche in the seat of honour, watched the passers-by. Independently of
the usual noble-looking Arabs, well-dressed merchants, Turkish officers,
and veiled beauties, there were numbers of Maltese
masqueraders—pantaloons, clowns, ballet girls, drunken sailors—acted as
well as real. In one khan a body of zealous Mussulmen were performing
the dervish dances; in the next, a group of pleasure-loving Arabs were
encoring a dance by the Almi dancing girls. A few yards further on, a
barrel organ was giving forth Jeannette and Jeannot, and on the opposite
side a pretty girl, with a melodious voice, was reciting the touching
loves of Bour ad Esseen and the daughter of the Great Wezeer, from the
Arabian Nights.
Solos, male and female, varied the scene here and there; and, as a
contrast, an old merchant might be observed reading the Koran to a
select circle of smoking friends.
As I passed along, the streets were brilliantly illuminated; but
suddenly I found myself on the shore of the deep blue sea, and nothing
was heard but the waves breaking on the beach, and dashing over the bar,
reminding me of the exclamation of Napoleon: “Alexandrie doit être la
capitale du monde.” All was dark, save where the moonbeam falling on the
rough water, cast a trembling light on the dancing boats half drawn up
on the shore. Not a human being was visible, except in one direction,
where a young Arab girl was silently weeping over a child that had just
expired.
The contrast was exceedingly striking: from the brilliance of art to the
calm beauty of nature, and from the busy hum of life to the solemn
sorrow of death.