mountain-tops, appears to fill all that part of
the sea. However, as the island is the half-way point between Europe and
Africa, one can at least feel, after finally leaving it behind, that the
Egyptian coast is not far distant. This coast is as indolent as that of
Crete is aggressive; it does not raise its head. You are there before
you see it or know it; and then, if you like, in something over three
hours more you can be in Cairo.

The Cairo street of the last Paris Exhibition, familiar to many
Americans, was a clever imitation. But imitations of the Orient are
melancholy; you cannot transplant the sky and the light.

The real Cairo has been sacrificed to the Nile. Comparatively few among
travellers in the East see the place under the best conditions; for upon
their arrival they are preoccupied with the magical river voyage which
beckons them southward, with the dahabeeyah or the steamer which is to
carry them; and upon their return from that wonderful journey they are
planning for the more difficult expedition to the Holy Land. It is safe
to say that to many Americans Cairo is only a confused memory of donkeys
and dragomans, mosquitoes and dervishes, and mosques, mosques, mosques!
This hard season probably must be gone through by all. The wise are
those who stay on after it is over, or who return; for the true
impression of a place does not come when the mind is overcrowded and
confused; it does not come when the body is wearied; for the descent of
the vision, serenity of soul is necessary--one might even call it
idleness. It is during those days when one does nothing that the reality
steals noiselessly into one's comprehension, to remain there forever.

But is Cairo worth this? is asked. That depends upon the temperament. If
one must have in his nature somewhere a trace of the poet to love
Venice, so one must be at heart something of a painter to love Cairo.
Her colors are so softly rich, the Saracenic part of her architecture is
so fantastically beautiful, the figures in her streets are so
picturesque, that one who has an eye for such effects seems to himself
to be living in a gallery of paintings without frames, which stretch off
in vistas, melting into each other as they go. If, therefore, one loves
color, if pictures are precious to him, are important, let him go to
Cairo; he will find pleasure awaiting him. Flaubert said that one could
imagine the pyramids, and perhaps the Sphinx, without an actual sight of