Egypt of the Pharaohs and of the Khedivé

by F. Barham Zincke

The old Mosks of Cairo throw much light on the history of the pointed arch, particularly the oldest of them all, that of Ahmed Ebn e’ Tooloon; which, however, is in so ruinous a condition that it is no longer in use. Its date, as recorded in two Cufic inscriptions on the walls, is 879 A.D.—that is to say, three hundred years before the pointed arch was adopted in this country. It is very improbable that this Mosk of Tooloon was the first building in which it was used, because it is not introduced here hesitatingly, as would have been done had it been struggling for recognition, but is boldly and firmly carried out in every part of the structure, and even with some combination of the horseshoe shape, as if it were a form with which the architect had become so familiar that he had even begun to modify it. So great a change in construction, and in the effects produced by form, must have had to fight for some time against previously-established forms. We may, therefore, safely decide that its introduction reaches further back than the date just given. This is saying that the world is indebted for it to Saracenic thought, and taste. This need not surprise us, because at that time there was no other people whose thought was so prolific; and theirs was prolific because it had been aroused to effort by their great achievements. Just as we learn to walk by walking, and to talk by talking, so do men learn how to do great things by doing great things. Other Cairene Mosks continue this history of the pointed arch.

The Mosk of Sultan Hassam has features that are worth noticing. Few buildings exhibit greater freedom of design, which comes, I suppose, of that depth of feeling, which is able to break the fetters of thought. Such a structure could have been the product only of a time when mind was deeply moved, and had become conscious of its power. Men knew then what they wanted, and believed in themselves, that they could satisfy their want. In such times servile imitations, and reproductions are impossible. They do not express what all feel. They do not supply what all are asking for. In this Mosk the porch, the inner court, the astonishing height of the outer wall, springing from the declivity of the hill-side, all the details, and the whole general effect, show that those who built it were conscious of real, deep aspirations, and were not acting under factitious ones; and that they were conscious also of possessing within themselves the power of giving form to their aspirations. It interprets to us the mind of its builders. They were full of vigour, and self-reliance. They yearned to give expression, in forms of beauty, and grandeur, to what was stirring within them.

As I was thus communing, historically, with the intense Mahomedan feeling, which had given a voice to every stone in the building, I was interrupted by another voice, but it was one of a kind, which, we may presume, will never have a thought of clothing itself in forms of beauty, and grandeur. ‘Look,’ it said to me, ‘up there at those crosses.’ ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It is impossible. There can be no crosses here.’ The objects I was invited to look at crown the cornice of the central, hypæthral court. They bear some kind of resemblance to fleurs de lis. ‘Yes,’ the voice continued. ‘Any one can see now just how it all is. These are the old places from which those ritualists get their mediæval crosses, and all that kind of thing.’

The great Mosk of El Azar is the university of Egypt, and of the surrounding countries. The foreign students are divided according to nations. Those of Egypt according to the provinces they come from. The cycle of religion, law, science, and polite learning, as these words are understood in the East, is here taught. Some come merely to qualify themselves for professions, or occupations, in which what they may acquire here will be needed. Others come with the intention, as was contemplated in our own universities, of life-long study.

Some of the tombs of the Memlook, and of other dynasties, that have ruled modern Egypt, are good examples of oriental taste, and feeling. These tombs are generally connected with Mosks. This connexion was intended to add dignity to the tomb, and to enhance its sacredness. The Mosk and tomb together are regarded as the monument of the deceased prince. The desire to honour the dead has, in many of these monuments, produced admirable work, the beauty of which is proportionate to the depth of the desire which prompted it. Sad, however, is it to see such beautiful work now falling into decay. New dynasties in the East care nothing for the monuments of the dynasties that preceded them.

The money spent in building the utterly useless Mosk of Mohamed Ali in the citadel would have put into repair all these monuments, which abound not more in exquisite work than in historical interest; and which, then, would have been secured to the world for some centuries longer at least. But nothing of this kind can be expected of Orientals. To repair and maintain the monuments of past generations is not an idea that has ever commended itself to their minds. People build there to show forth their own greatness, and to perpetuate their own names. If, therefore, I have money to spend on wood and stone, why should I so spend it as to perpetuate another man’s name, and to set forth the greatness of some other builder? For this is what I should do if I repaired his Mosk, or palace. Would it not be wiser for me to spend it in perpetuating my own name, and setting forth my own greatness?

To us there occurs the thought of the historical value of the monuments of the past. This, however, is not an idea than can have any place in the mind of an Oriental. He has no conception of the historical value of anything; nor has he any idea of what history itself is. There can be no history where there is no progress; and his religion, by settling everything once for ever, excludes from his mind the idea of progress, and with it goes the idea of history.

But still, from our point of view, it is a waste of money and labour to build when you might repair. To repair is cheap, to build is costly. But this is precisely what commends the Oriental practice to the Oriental’s mind. That it will cost much money, and much labour pleases him. In matters of this kind, ideas of prudence and utility have no place. An hundred kings of England, we can imagine, occupying in succession Windsor Palace, and preferring it, simply on account of its antiquity, to anything they might be able to build themselves. Every one of them would think it a folly to entertain the idea of building another palace. But every Khedivé of Egypt, just like every King of Nineveh, must build a new one.

Private houses in Cairo appear to be in the same predicament as the Mosks. None are kept in a state of repair. Everything is either being built, or is falling into decay.