beaten this evening by the
squalls of winter. The domes, the holy tombs, the minarets and terraces,
all are crumbling: the hand of death is upon them all. But down there,
in the far distance, near to that silver streak which meanders through
the plains, and which is the old Nile, the advent of new times is
proclaimed by the chimneys of factories, impudently high, that disfigure
everything, and spout forth into the twilight thick clouds of black
smoke.

The night is falling as we descend from the esplanade to return to our
lodgings.

We have first to traverse the old town of Cairo, a maze of streets
still full of charm, wherein the thousand little lamps of the Arab shops
already shed their quiet light. Passing through streets which twist at
their caprice, beneath overhanging balconies covered with wooden trellis
of exquisite workmanship, we have to slacken speed in the midst of a
dense crowd of men and beasts. Close to us pass women, veiled in black,
gently mysterious as in the olden times, and men of unmoved gravity, in
long robes and white draperies; and little donkeys pompously bedecked in
collars of blue beads; and rows of leisurely camels, with their loads of
lucerne, which exhale the pleasant fragrance of the fields. And when
in the gathering gloom, which hides the signs of decay, there appear
suddenly, above the little houses, so lavishly ornamented with
mushrabiyas and arabesques, the tall aerial minarets, rising to a
prodigious height into the twilight sky, it is still the adorable East.

But nevertheless, what ruins, what filth, what rubbish! How present is
the sense of impending dissolution! And what is this: large pools of
water in the middle of the road! Granted that there is more rain here
than formerly, since the valley of the Nile has been artificially
irrigated, it still seems almost impossible that there should be all
this black water, into which our carriage sinks to the very axles; for
it is a clear week since any serious quantity of rain fell. It would
seem that the new masters of this land, albeit the cost of annual upkeep
has risen in their hands to the sum of fifteen million pounds, have
given no thought to drainage. But the good Arabs, patiently and without
murmuring, gather up their long robes, and with legs bare to the knee
make their way through this already pestilential water, which must be
hatching for them fever and death.

Further on, as the carriage proceeds on its course, the scene c