The entire number in attendance at this greatest University of the Mohammedans is about thirteen thousand. Some calculations place it at fifteen thousand. They come from every part of the world where the cimetar of Mohammed and his successors has drawn blood, and where the crescent now floats. Each part of the large hall has its nation, where the students are grouped territorially. Here, in one place, are the Benguelese, from southwestern Africa; in another place are the Algerines, from the sound of the Mediterranean surf. Yonder are only Thracians, from south of the Balkans. This group, as black as your hat, consists entirely of Nubians. Another is made up solely of natives of Zanzibar. These divisions reach into nearly all the Asiatic and African lands. There are Afghanistaneze and others from still farther east, from the very heart of India, and even from the far Pacific islands. One has only to see these collections of students, massed around a teacher of their own language and nationality, to become convinced of the broad field of Mohammedanism and the mightiness of the effort needful to uproot it. Poverty! That is no name for the condition of the students. They come to Cairo from the far-off regions, impelled by some passion bordering on that for learning, living on a little crust and fruit, having no sleeping place at night save the space of the sacred mosque which serves as a university, never paying a piastre for all the instruction of years, and looking forward with earnest longing to the time when they can leave again and impart to their native villages, or the very desert wastes, the wisdom which they have gained in the shades of the great hall of learning in the Cairo of the caliphs. There is a dash of self-seeking in their coming hither. When the tocsin of war is sounded, there is no exemption from conscription save learning. He who has once entered the doorway is safe from the conscription list. Were an attack made on the very citadel where Mohammed Ali put to death every plotting Mameluke—except one, who leaped upon his faithful Arab steed and plunged safely into the depths below—nothing could touch him. He has come to the fountain of knowledge, and Mars has no claim upon him. At the present time the number of students is not so large as usual, for there is no fear of a war, except such as the English are fighting and holding themselves responsible for. I looked carefully at the kind of food which these students ate, and in all cases it was of the simplest quality. Some were taking their solid dinner, and it was nothing more than a rude bowl of lentil soup or a flat cake of pounded grain. The clothing in most cases betokened the same poverty. The slippers were of rude construction, such as fifteen cents would buy, and even these are to be worn at the general prayer, which begins the day for all the students, only to be laid aside during the later hours. The habit is a loose black, or other colored robe, which