A Number Of Little Savoury
Plates Of Legumes Of The Vegetable-Marrow Sort:
Kibobs with an
excellent sauce of plums and piquant herbs.
We ended the repast
with ruby pomegranates, pulled to pieces, deliciously cool and
pleasant. For the meats, we certainly ate them with the Infidel
knife and fork; but for the fruit, we put our hands into the dish
and flicked them into our mouths in what cannot but be the true
Oriental manner. I asked for lamb and pistachio-nuts, and cream-
tarts au poivre; but J.'s cook did not furnish us with either of
those historic dishes. And for drink, we had water freshened in
the porous little pots of grey clay, at whose spout every traveller
in the East has sucked delighted. Also, it must be confessed, we
drank certain sherbets, prepared by the two great rivals, Hadji
Hodson and Bass Bey - the bitterest and most delicious of draughts!
O divine Hodson! a camel's load of thy beer came from Beyrout to
Jerusalem while we were there. How shall I ever forget the joy
inspired by one of those foaming cool flasks?
We don't know the luxury of thirst in English climes. Sedentary
men in cities at least have seldom ascertained it; but when they
travel, our countrymen guard against it well. The road between
Cairo and Suez is jonche with soda-water corks. Tom Thumb and his
brothers might track their way across the desert by those
landmarks.
Cairo is magnificently picturesque: it is fine to have palm-trees
in your gardens, and ride about on a camel; but, after all, I was
anxious to know what were the particular excitements of Eastern
life, which detained J-, who is a town-bred man, from his natural
pleasures and occupations in London; where his family don't hear
from him, where his room is still kept ready at home, and his name
is on the list of his club; and where his neglected sisters tremble
to think that their Frederick is going about with a great beard and
a crooked sword, dressed up like an odious Turk. In a "lark" such
a costume may be very well; but home, London, a razor, your sister
to make tea, a pair of moderate Christian breeches in lieu of those
enormous Turkish shulwars, are vastly more convenient in the long
run. What was it that kept him away from these decent and
accustomed delights?
It couldn't be the black eyes in the balcony - upon his honour she
was only the black cook, who has done the pilaff, and stuffed the
cucumbers. No, it was an indulgence of laziness such as Europeans,
Englishmen, at least, don't know how to enjoy. Here he lives like
a languid Lotus-eater - a dreamy, hazy, lazy, tobaccofied life. He
was away from evening parties, he said: he needn't wear white kid
gloves, or starched neckcloths, or read a newspaper. And even this
life at Cairo was too civilised for him: Englishmen passed
through; old acquaintances would call: the great pleasure of
pleasures was life in the desert, - under the tents, with still more
nothing to do than in Cairo; now smoking, now cantering on Arabs,
and no crowd to jostle you; solemn contemplations of the stars at
night, as the camels were picketed, and the fires and the pipes
were lighted.
The night-scene in the city is very striking for its vastness and
loneliness. Everybody has gone to rest long before ten o'clock.
There are no lights in the enormous buildings; only the stars
blazing above, with their astonishing brilliancy, in the blue
peaceful sky. Your guides carry a couple of little lanterns which
redouble the darkness in the solitary echoing street. Mysterious
people are curled up and sleeping in the porches. A patrol of
soldiers passes, and hails you. There is a light yet in one
mosque, where some devotees are at prayers all night; and you hear
the queerest nasal music proceeding from those pious believers. As
you pass the madhouse, there is one poor fellow still talking to
the moon - no sleep for him. He howls and sings there all the
night - quite cheerfully, however. He has not lost his vanity with
his reason: he is a Prince in spite of the bars and the straw.
What to say about those famous edifices, which has not been better
said elsewhere? - but you will not believe that we visited them,
unless I bring some token from them. Here is one:- {2}
That white-capped lad skipped up the stones with a jug of water in
his hand, to refresh weary climbers; and squatting himself down on
the summit, was designed as you see. The vast flat landscape
stretches behind him; the great winding river; the purple city,
with forts, and domes, and spires; the green fields, and palm-
groves, and speckled villages; the plains still covered with
shining inundations - the landscape stretches far far away, until it
is lost and mingled in the golden horizon. It is poor work this
landscape-painting in print. Shelley's two sonnets are the best
views that I know of the Pyramids - better than the reality; for a
man may lay down the book, and in quiet fancy conjure up a picture
out of these magnificent words, which shan't be disturbed by any
pettinesses or mean realities, - such as the swarms of howling
beggars, who jostle you about the actual place, and scream in your
ears incessantly, and hang on your skirts, and bawl for money.
The ride to the Pyramids is one of the pleasantest possible. In
the fall of the year, though the sky is almost cloudless above you,
the sun is not too hot to bear; and the landscape, refreshed by the
subsiding inundations, delightfully green and cheerful. We made up
a party of some half-dozen from the hotel, a lady (the kind soda-
water provider, for whose hospitality the most grateful compliments
are hereby offered) being of the company, bent like the rest upon
going to the summit of Cheops.
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