The red uniforms and
the white faces of the north: Englishmen, billeted in the palace of
Mehemet Ali!
The mosque first meets the eye, preceding the palace. And as we
approach, it is Stamboul indeed - for me dear old Stamboul - which is
called to mind; there is nothing, whether in the lines of its
architecture or in the details of its ornamentation, to suggest the
art of the Arabs - a purer art it may be than this and of which many
excellent examples may be seen in Cairo. No; it is a corner of Turkey
into which we are suddenly come.
Beyond a courtyard paved with marble, silent and enclosed, which
serves as a vast parvis, the sanctuary recalls those of Mehemet Fatih
or the Chah Zade: the same sanctified gloom, into which the stained
glass of the narrow windows casts a splendour as of precious stones;
the same extreme distance between the enormous pillars, leaving more
clear space than in our churches, and giving to the domes the
appearance of being held up by enchantment.
The walls are of a strange white marble streaked with yellow. The
ground is completely covered with carpets of a sombre red.
