The real Bedouin visits the city only to make purchases at the bazaars, and he is the most picturesque of all the moving figures in an Eastern crowd. Strong, but slender in frame, his striped abba hangs easily in heavy folds over his shoulder, and his dark skin and prominent features, and keen black eye, all mark the unchanged son of the desert, who belongs not to the city, but passes through it, indifferent to its conveniences and luxuries, and despising its customs like his ancestors. In my journey up the Nile I saw many encampments of genuine Bedouins, and I always found that an Arab in his encampment is a different being from what he is when wandering in the desert. Within the former his time is idly passed, smoking, drinking coffee, and sleeping; yet his steed was always ready caparisoned at the door of his tent; beside him in the sand was planted his spear, and at the call of his chief he was ready to vault into his saddle, and rush forth to battle with all the fire of his nation.
From Cairo to Heliopolis the distance is only five or six miles, and a donkey ride of less than two hours brought us to the foot of the solitary obelisk that exists to remind us of the once famous “city of the sun.” The obelisk is of red granite, and must have come from the quarries of Syene five hundred miles away. It measures sixty-seven feet in height, and its base is buried several feet in earth, gradually deposited by successive overflows of the Nile. It is covered with hieroglyphics and bears the name of Osirtesen I., the most illustrious member of the XIIth Dynasty, who reigned over both Upper and Lower Egypt. Who executed it, or sculptured it, or how it was transported to its present site, and erected, are questions not yet answered.
A taste for story-telling is still one of their leading characteristics. They know no greater pleasure than to assemble together in their encampment, and seated in front of one of their number, smoke, and listen with the most intense interest to the exploits of warriors, the adventures of lovers, or the enchantment of sorcerers, until want of breath and want of sleep put an end to the tales.
Hard by there is an old sycamore tree—called the Madonna’s tree—under which, tradition says, Mary rested with her infant when flying from Herod. It looks like a stunted tree of enormous growth, as if several trees springing up side by side had grown together. That the tree as it now stands is of very great age, there can be no manner of doubt.
