Chapter V: THE BIOLOGICAL TYPE. In some ways the most important scientific (13)

In the larger, more copiously watered oases, men have planted palms, which lend a fresh charm to the settlement. The palm is here all in all: it is the queen of trees, the giver of fruit which sustains man and binds him to his little spot of earth, the tree around which saga and song are twined, the tree of life. What would an oasis be without palms? A tent without a roof, a house without inmate, a well without water, a poem without words, a song without tune, a picture without colour. The palm’s fruits feed the nomad herdsman and the settler alike, they become wheat or barley in his hand, they satisfy even the tax-gatherer of his lord and master. Its stems, its crown, its narrow leaves supply him with shelter and utensils, mats, baskets, and sacks, ropes and cords. In the sandy desert one first appreciates its full worth and importance, it becomes the visible emblem of Arabian poetry, which rises like it from frequently barren ground, which grows strong and fades not, which raises itself on high, and there only bears sweet fruit.

Mimosas and palms are the characteristic trees of all oases, and are never absent from those which have so many springs or wells that gardens and fields become possible. Here they are restricted, like outposts against the invading sand, to the outer fringe of the desert island, while the interior is adorned with more exacting plants which require more water. Thus around the springs or wells there are often charming gardens in which grow almost all the fruit-bearing plants of North Africa. Here the vine clambers, the orange glows amid its dark foliage, the pomegranate opens its rosy mouth, the banana expands its fan-shaped leaf clusters, the melons straggle among the beds of vegetables, prickly-pears and olives, perhaps even figs, apricots, and almonds, complete the picture of fruitfulness. At a greater distance from the centre lie the fields, bearing at least Kaffir-millet, and, in favourable conditions, wheat, or even rice.

In oases so rich man finds a permanent home, while in those which are poorer he is but a sojourner, or a more or less periodic guest. The village or small township of a large oasis is essentially like that of the nearest cultivated country; like it it has its mosques, its bazaars, its coffee-houses; but the inhabitants are children of a different spirit from that which marks the peasants or townsfolk in the Nile valley or along the coast. Although usually of diverse race among themselves they all exhibit the same customs and habits. The desert has shaped and fashioned them. Their slender build, sharply-cut features, and keen eyes, gleaming from under bushy brows, mark them at once as sons of the desert; but their habits and customs are even more characteristic. They are unexacting and readily contented, energetic and full of resource, hospitable and open-hearted, honourable and loyal, but proud, irritable, and passionate, inclined to robbery and acts of violence, like the Bedouins, though not their equals either in good or evil. A caravan entering their settlement is a welcome sight, but they expect the traveller to pay them toll.

Very different from such oases are those valleys in which a much-desired well is only to be found at times. The Arabian nomads are well pleased if the supply of drinking-water for themselves and their herds is sufficient for a few months or even weeks; and the caravan, which rests in such a place, may be content if its demands are satisfied within a few days. The well is usually a deep shaft, from whose walls the water oozes rather than trickles. A few tom-palms rise among the sparse mimosas and saltworts which surround the well; a few stems of grass break through the hard ground.

Unutterably poor are these nomad herdsmen, who pitch their tents here as long as their small flocks of goats can find anything to eat. Their struggle for existence is a continuous succession of toil, and want, and misery. Their tent is of the simplest; a long dark web of cloth, made of goats’ hair, is laid across a simple framework, and its ends pinned to the ground; a piece of the same stuff forms the back-wall, and a mat of palm-leaves forms the door in front. The web is the wife’s self-made dowry, the materials for which she gathered, spun, and wove from her eighth to her sixteenth year. A few mats which serve as beds, a block of granite and a grindstone for pounding the grain got in barter, a flat plate of clay to roast the cakes, two large jars, some leather sacks and skins, an axe and several lances, form the total furnishings. A herd of twenty goats is counted a rich possession for a family. But these people are as brave as they are poor, as lovable as they are well-built, as good-natured as they are beautiful, as generous as they are frugal, as hospitable as they are honourable, as chaste as they are devout. Ancient pictures rise in the mind of the Occidental who meets with these folk for the first time; he sees biblical characters face to face, and hears them speak in a manner with which he has been familiar from his childhood. Thousands of years have been to these nomads of the desert as one day; to-day they think, and speak, and act as did the patriarchs of old. The very greeting which Abraham uttered meets the stranger’s ear; the very words which Rebecca spoke to Abraham’s servant were addressed to me, when, tortured with thirst, I sprang from my camel at the well of Bahiuda, and begged a beautiful brown damsel for a drink of fresh water. There she stood before me, the Rebecca of thousands of years ago, alive and in unfading youth, another and yet the same.

On the arrival of the caravan the whole population of the temporary settlement assembles. The chief steps forward from their midst, and utters the greeting of peace; all the rest bid the strangers welcome. Then they offer the most precious of gifts, fresh water; it is all that they have to give, and it is given with dignified friendliness, ungrudgingly, yet without urgency. Eagerly the travellers drink in long refreshing draughts; the camels also press in riotously upon the watering-place, although they might know from experience that they must first be unloaded, tethered, and turned on the grass before they are allowed to quench an unbroken thirst of four or six days. Even at the well not a drop is wasted, therefore the camels first get any water that remains in the skins, and it is not till these are filled up again that the beasts get a fresh draught, and that with more respect to the existing supplies than their actual needs. Only at the copious wells can one satisfy their apparently unbounded desires, and see, not without amusement, how they swallow without ever looking up, and then hasten from the well to the not less eagerly desired pasture, forced by their hobbles to grotesque and clumsy movements, which make their stomachs rumble like half-filled casks.

And now begins a festival both for travellers and settlers. The former find fresh water, perhaps even milk and meat, to increase the delight of the longed-for resting-time; the latter gladly welcome any break in their life, which, in good seasons, is very monotonous. One of the camel-drivers finds in the nearest tent the favourite instrument of those who live in the desert, the _tambura_ or five-stringed zither, and he knows right well how to use it in accompaniment to his simple song. The music allures the daughters of the camp, and slim, beautiful women and girls press inquisitively around the strangers, fastening their dark eyes on them and their possessions, inquiring curiously about this and that. Steel thy heart, stranger; else these eyes may set it on fire. They are more beautiful than those of the gazelle, the lips beneath put corals to shame, and the dazzling teeth excel any pearls which thou couldst give these daughters of the desert. And soon all yields to music and to song. Around the zither-player groups arrange themselves for the dance; hands both hard and soft beat time to the tune, the words, and the regular swaying movements. New forms come and those we have become familiar with disappear; there is a constantly changing bustle and crowd around the strangers, who are wise if they regard all with the same innocence and simplicity which their hosts display. All the discomforts of the journey are forgotten, and all longings are satisfied, for water flows abundantly and takes the place of all that one might desire in other places or at other seasons.

Such a rest revives body and soul. Strengthened and encouraged the caravan goes on its way, and if the days bring nothing worse than scorching, thirst, and fatigue, a second, and a third well is safely reached, and finally the goal of the journey--the first township on the other side of the desert. But the desert--the sea of sand--is like the all-embracing ocean also in that it is fickle. For here too there are raging storms, which wreck its ships and raise destruction-bringing billows. When the north wind, which blows continuously for months, comes into conflict with currents from the south, or yields them the mastery, the traveller suddenly sees the sand become alive, rising in huge pillars as thick as they are high, which whirl more or less rapidly over the plain. The sun’s rays sometimes lend them the ruddy gleam of flames, at another time they seem almost colourless, yet again, portentously dark, the furious storm weakens them and strengthens them, splits them and unites them, sometimes merging two or more into one huge sand-spout which reaches to the clouds. Well might the Occidental exclaim at the sublimity of the spectacle, did not the anxious looks and words of his escort make him dumb. Woe to the caravan which is overtaken by one of these raging whirlwinds, it will be good fortune if man and beast escape alive. And even if the inexorable messenger of fate pass over the party without doing harm, danger is by no means over, for behind the sand-spouts usually comes the Simoom or poisonous storm.

This ever-dreaded wind, which blows as the _Chamasin_ through Egypt, as the Sirocco towards Italy, as the _Föhn_ through the Alps, as the _Tauwind_ in North Europe, does not always rise into a storm; not unfrequently it is hardly noticeable, and yet it makes many a man’s heart tremble. Of course much that is fabulous is told of it, but this much is true, that it is in certain conditions extremely dangerous to the caravan, and that it is responsible for the bleached skeletons of camels and the half-buried, half-mummified, corpses of men that one sees by the wayside. It is not its strength, but its character, its electric potential, which brings suffering and destruction to man and beast wandering on the sandy sea.

The natives and the observant can foretell the coming of the sand-storm at least one day, often several days, ahead. Unfailing symptoms tell of its approach. The air becomes sultry and oppressive; a light, grayish or reddish vapour obscures the sky; and there is not a breath of wind. All living creatures suffer visibly under the gradually increasing sultriness; men grumble and groan; the wild animals are shyer than usual; the camels become restless and cross, jostling one another, jibbing stubbornly, even lying down on the ground. The sun sets without any colour; no red-glow fringes the evening sky; every light is veiled in a vaporous shroud. Night brings neither coolness nor refreshment, rather an aggravation of the sultriness, the lassitude, the discomfort; in spite of all weariness one cannot sleep. If men and beasts are still able to move, no rest is taken, but they hurry on with the most anxious haste as long as the leader can see any of the heavenly bodies. But the vapour becomes a dry fog, obscuring one constellation after another, hiding moon and sun, though in the most favourable conditions these may be visible, about half their normal size, pale in colour and of ill-defined contour.

Sometimes it is at midnight that the wind begins to raise its wings; more commonly about noon. Without a watch no one could tell the time, for the fog has become so thick that the sun is completely hidden. A gloomy twilight covers the desert, and everything even within a short radius is hazy and indistinct. Gently, hardly perceptibly the air at length begins to move. It is not a breeze, but the merest breath. But this breath scorches, pierces like an icy wind into bone and marrow, producing dull headache, enervation, and uneasiness. The first breath is followed by a more perceptible gust, equally piercing and deadening. Several brief blasts rage howling across the plain.

It is now high time to encamp. Even the camels know this, for no whip will make them take another step. Panic-stricken they sink down, stretch out their long necks in front of them, press them closely on the sand, and shut their eyes. Their drivers unload them as rapidly as possible, build the baggage into a barricade, and heap all the water-bags closely together, so as to present the least possible surface to the wind, and cover them with any available mats. This accomplished, they wrap themselves as closely as may be in their robes, moisten the part which surrounds the head, and take refuge behind the baggage. All this is done with the utmost despatch, for the sand-storm never leaves one long to wait.

Following one another in more rapid succession, the blasts soon become continuous, and the storm rages. The wind roars and rumbles, pipes and howls in the firmament; the sand rushes and rages along the ground; there is creaking and crackling and crashing among the baggage as the planks of the boxes burst. The prevailing sultriness increases till the limit of endurance seems all but reached; all moisture leaves the sweat-covered body; the mucous membranes begin to crack and bleed; the parched tongue lies like a piece of lead in the mouth; the pulse quickens, the heart throbs convulsively; the skin begins to peel, and into the lacerations the raging storm bears fine sand, producing new tortures. The sons of the desert pray and groan, the stranger murmurs and complains.

The severest raging of the sand-storm does not usually last long, it may be only for an hour, or for two or three, just like the analogous thunder-storm in the north. As it assuages the dust sinks, the air clears, perhaps a counter-breeze sets in from the north; the caravan rearranges itself and goes on its way. But if the Simoom last for half a day or for a whole day, then it may fare with the traveller as it did with an acquaintance of mine, the French traveller Thibaut, as he journeyed through the Northern Bahiuda desert. He found the last well dry, and with almost exhausted water-bags he was forced to push on towards the Nile, four days’ journey off. On him and his panic-stricken caravan, which had left every dispensable piece of baggage at the dry well, the deadly storm broke loose. The unfortunate company encamped, hoped for the end of the storm, but waited in vain, mourning, desponding, desperate. One of Thibaut’s servants sprang up maddened, howled down the storm, raged, and raved, and at last, utterly spent, fell prostrate on his master, gasped, and died. A second fell victim to sunstroke, and when the storm at last abated was found dead in his resting-place. A third lingered behind the rest after they had started again on their life-or-death race, and he also perished. Half of the camels were lost. With the remnant of his company Thibaut reached the Nile, but in two days his coal-black hair had become white as snow.

To such storms are due the mummied corpses which one sees by the path of the caravan. The storm which killed them also buries them in the drifting sand; this removes all moisture so quickly that the body, instead of decaying, dries up into a mummy. Over them one wind casts a shroud of sand, which another strips away. Then the corpse is seen stretching its hand, its foot, or its face towards the traveller, and one of the drivers answers the petition of the dead, covers him again with sand, and goes on his way, saying, “Sleep, servant of God, sleep in peace.”

To such storms are also due the dream-pictures of the Fata Morgana which arise in the minds of the survivors. As long as a man pursues his way with full, undiminished strength and with sound senses, the mirage appears to him merely as a remarkable natural phenomenon, and in no wise as Fata Morgana. During the hot season, especially about noon, but from nine in the morning until three o’clock, the “devil’s sea” is to be seen daily in the desert. A gray surface like a lake, or more accurately like a flooded district, is formed on every plantless flat at a certain distance in front of or around the traveller; it heaves and swells, glitters and shimmers, leaves all actually existing objects visible, but raises them apparently to the level of its uppermost stratum and reflects them down again. Camels or horses disappearing in the distance appear, like the angels in pictures, as if floating on clouds, and if one can distinguish their movements, it seems as if they were about to set down each limb on a cushion of vapour. The distance which limits the phenomenon remains always the same, as long as the observer does not change his angle of vision; and thus it varies for the rider and the pedestrian. The whole phenomenon depends on the well-known law, that a ray of light passing through a medium which is not homogeneous is refracted, and thus it is inevitable, since the lower strata of air become expanded by reflection of heat from the glowing sand. No Arab hides his face when he sees a mirage, as fanciful travellers assure their credulous readers; none puts any deep interpretation on the phrase which he likes to use--“the devil’s sea”. But when the anxiety, distress, enervation, and misery consequent on a sand-storm beset and weaken him, and the mirage appears, then it may become a Fata Morgana, for the abnormally excited imagination forms pictures which are in most perfect harmony with the most urgent desire of the moment--the desire for water and for rest. Even to me, who have observed the mirage hundreds of times, the Fata Morgana appeared once. It was after four-and-twenty hours of torturing thirst that I saw the devil’s sea sparkling and gleaming before me. I really thought I saw the sacred Nile and boats with full-bellied sails, palm-groves and woods, and country-houses. But where my abnormal senses perceived a flourishing palm-grove, my equally abnormal comrade saw sailing-boats, and where I fancied I recognized gardens, he saw not less imaginary woodland. And all the deceptive phantasms vanished as soon as we were refreshed with an unexpected draught of water; only the nebulous gray sea remained in sight.

Perhaps every one who crosses a stretch of desert in the Nile-lands sees the devil’s sea; but there is a real and most living desert picture, a sight of which is not granted to all. On the extreme limit of vision, raised perhaps by the mirage and veiled in vapour, a number of riders appear; they are mounted on steeds swift as the wind, with limbs like those of deer; they approach rapidly, and urging to full gallop the steeds which till then they had restrained, they rush down upon the caravan. It always gave me pleasure to meet these haggard, picturesquely-clad men; they and their horses seemed to be so thoroughly harmonious with the desert. The Bedouin is indeed the true son of the desert, and his steed is his counterpart. He is stern and terrible as the desert day, gentle and friendly as the desert night. True to his pledged word, unswerving in obedience to the laws and customs of his race, dignified in bearing, lofty in discourse, unsurpassed in self-restraint and endurance, more sensitive than almost any other man to deeds of prowess, to glory and honour, and not less to the golden web of fancy into which his poetic genius weaves such wondrous pictures and twines such tender fragrant flowers; yet is he cunning and crafty towards his enemies, a bounden slave to his customs, unscrupulous in his demands, mean and paltry in his exactions, greedy in his pleasures, unrestrained in cruelty, terrible in revenge, to-day the noble host, to-morrow a threatening and shameless beggar, now a proud robber and again a pitiable thief. In short he is to the stranger as fickle and changeful as the desert itself. His horse has the same keen, fiery, expressive eyes, the same strength and agility in its thin, almost fragile limbs, the same endurance, the same frugality, the same nature as his master, for they grew up together under the same tent, they rest and dwell beneath the same roof. The animal is not the slave but the companion, the friend of its master, the playmate of his children. Proud, spirited, and even savage in the open desert, it is as quiet as a lamb in the tent; it seems altogether inseparable from its master.

In all the deserts which are, in name at least, under the sway of the Khedive of Egypt, the Bedouins no longer fill the rôle which was theirs in earlier times, and still belongs to them in Arabia and in North-west Africa. For between them and the Egyptian government there is a strict treaty which binds them to allow caravans to pass through their haunts unmolested. Thus robberies in the desert are of the rarest occurrence, and an encounter with the Bedouins raises the less apprehension, since these children of the desert are usually the owners of the hired camels. At the same time the true lords of the waste still love to cling to the old customs and to retain a semblance of their dominion, so that it is prudent before setting out on a desert journey to claim safe-conduct from some recognized chief. With this in possession, an encounter took form somewhat as follows.

One of the sunburnt horsemen sprang forward from the troop, and turned to the leader or head of our caravan.

“Peace be with thee, O stranger!”

“And with thee, O chief, be the grace of God, His mercy, and His compassion!”

“Whither journey ye, sirs?”

“To Belled-Aali, O Sheikh.”

“Do ye journey under protection?”

“We journey under the safe-conduct of his Excellency, the Khedive.”

“And no other?”

“Also Sheikh Soliman, Mohammed Cheir Allah, Ibn Sidi Aulad Aali, has granted us protection and peace.”

“Then are ye welcome and blessed.”

“The Giver of all blessings bless thee and thy father, O chief!”

“Have ye need of ought? My men will supply it. In Wadi Ghitere are our tents, and ye are welcome there if ye seek rest. If not, may Allah grant a prosperous journey!”

“He will be with us, for He is merciful.”

“And the Guide on all good ways.”

“Amen, O chief!”

And the troop wheels off; rider and steed become one; the light hoofs seem scarce to touch the sand, the white burnooses flutter in the wind, and the poet’s words rise into memory--

“Bedouin, on thy steed, thou art a poem in thyself!”

Such are some of the fascinating pictures shown to the receptive eye. The more intimately one comes to know the desert, the more it grows upon one, alleviating and lessening all toil and discomfort. Yet the last hours of the journey are those of greatest joy. When the first palm-village of cultivated land appears in sight, when the silver line of the sacred river is once more visible, gladness fills the heart. Men and beasts hasten as if to prove that the glad reality is not an illusion which may vanish in the mist. But the goal becomes more and more distinct; it seems as if we had never seen fresher colours, we fancy that nowhere else can there be trees so green, water so cool. With a final effort the camels push on, far too slowly for their impatient riders. Friendly greetings reach our ears. The village on the Nile is reached at last. From all the huts throng men and women, the aged and the children. Inquisitively they crowd around the camp, men and women curiously questioning, youths and maidens eager for the dance. Tambura and tarabuka, the zither and drum of the country, invite to motion; and the dancing-girls gladden the eyes of strangers and countrymen alike. Even the creaking of the water-wheel on the river, formerly a thousand times cursed, seems musical to-day. The evening brings fresh joys. Comfortably couched on the cool and elastic divan, the foreigner pledges the native in palm-wine or merieza--the nectar of the land; while the sound of zither and drum, and the rhythmic hand-clapping of the dancing youths and maidens form a merry accompaniment to the dainty banquet. But at length the approaching night begins to press its claims. Tambura and tarabuka sink into silence and the dance comes to an end; one after another, refreshed and well-content, the travellers seek rest. At length only one is left, a son of Khahira, the mother of the world, whom sleep still refuses to bless. From beside the flickering camp-fire comes his simple, tremulous song--

Sweet night, dear night, thou mak’st me sad,
Longer thou seem’st and alway longer;
No peace from thee I ever had,
With thee day’s pain grows ever stronger.

Oh, gentle night, how long, how long,
Since these poor eyes last saw her beauty!
Seeing aught else they do her wrong;
When will she come to claim their duty?

Oh, tender night, now hovering near,
Lighten Love’s load, and my undoing!
Bring Peace to me, Peace to my Dear,
Shelter my Sweet, and speed my wooing!

But this lover’s plaint also dies away, and the silence of the night is unbroken save by the murmurings of the wavelets on the sacred river.

NUBIA AND THE NILE RAPIDS.[B]

[B] In order to understand and appreciate this chapter the reader should bear in mind that the Nile is in flood from June to about the end of September, being at its highest in the latter month, and at its lowest in April. At low Nile the rapids present a very different appearance from what they do at high Nile.

Egypt and Nubia, though immediately adjacent, and closely connected by a river common to both, are essentially different countries. Through Egypt the sacred Nile flows with leisurely dignity, through Nubia it rushes in furious haste; over Egypt it distributes its blessings widely, in Nubia it is hemmed in by high rocky banks; in Egypt it triumphs over the desert, in Nubia the desert is supreme; Egypt is a garden which the river has formed after thousands of years of ceaseless labour, Nubia is a desert which it cannot conquer. Of course this desert has its oases like any other, but they are few and scarcely worth considering in comparison with the lands on both sides of the stream which remain in unchangeable sterility and desolation. Throughout the greater part of the long winding valley which forms what we call Nubia, dark, gleaming masses of rock rise from the bed of the river or from its immediate vicinity, and over wide tracts prevent the growth of almost all vegetation. They have for their sole adornment the waves of golden yellow sand which are blown from the deserts on east and west, and gradually slide down the rocks into the river. The sun beats from the deep-blue and rarely cloudy sky; for many years together not a single shower refreshes the thirsty ground. In the deeply cut gorges the life-giving waves of the fertilizing stream contend in vain with the unimpressionable rocks, on which they hurl themselves roaring and foaming, blustering and thundering, as if enraged that their generosity is met with ingratitude and their beneficence with disdain. The field on which this battle is waged is the region of the rapids.

Very few travellers who visit the lower valley of the Nile ever reach the rapids of its middle course. A few go beyond the so-called first cataract, scarcely one in a hundred passes the second. Wady Halfa, a village immediately below the second group of rapids, is the usual goal of travellers; only purposes of exploration, the passion for the chase, or some commercial enterprise, leads any one further south. For it is at Wady Haifa that the difficulties of a journey into the interior really begin, and it is therefore not surprising that the great majority turn the prow of the boat homewards at that village of palms. But no one who is young and vigorous, energetic, and not too luxuriously inclined, will ever regret if he pushes farther south. In the Nile valley, which is by no means rich in picturesqueness, the region of the rapids is quite unique. Grandeur and beauty, sombreness and gaiety, desolation and overflowing life mark the scenes that here follow one another in quick succession; but they are all desert pictures which this landscape presents, and one must forget conventional standards in order to appreciate them as they deserve. The man who is unable to appreciate the desert, to revel in its wealth of colour, to endure its scorching heat, and to find refreshment in its solemn night, would do well to avoid the desert of the Nile. But he who travels through the country of the rapids with open eye and receptive heart, who in his frail boat engages, wherever possible, in the struggle with the furiously foaming waves, will have his whole life enriched with precious memories. For never will the impressive spectacle that his eye has looked on fade from his mental vision, never will the sublime melody the stream has sung in his ear cease to echo in his soul. Such, at least, is my experience, and I have journeyed through the rocky valley of Nubia on land and on water, up the river and down, contending with the waves, ay, and with hunger and want, and looking down on the rapids from the tops of high cliffs as well as from the camel’s back.

It is customary to speak of three cataracts. Each consists of a series of rapids, which, for about a mile, make navigation in the highest degree difficult and dangerous. At the first cataract there is properly but one rapid; taking the second and third together there are about thirty which the Nubian boatmen call by special names. There are no waterfalls which make navigation of any kind impossible, not at least on the regular route where, in addition to passing vessels, there ply boats specially built and equipped for the rapids.[76]

When the traveller in his progress up the sacred river has traversed the north-easterly tract where the river is hemmed in between the Rocks of the Chain (_Jebel Silsileh_), the scenery changes abruptly. Behind him lies Egypt, in other words the low-lying valley, broadening seawards into a boundless plain; before him rises the rocky threshold of Nubia. The contrast is most striking. Monotony is replaced by diversity. It is indeed true that even the scenery of Egypt presents many a picture which is stimulating to the eye and refreshing to the soul; it is true that its beauty is enhanced, especially in the morning and evening hours, by the wondrous brilliance of southern light; but taken as a whole it seems monotonous, for everywhere the prospect is alike, whether the eye rests on rocks of sandstone and limestone by the margin of the valley, or takes a wider survey over the river and the fields. One and the same picture, with little variety, is repeated a hundred times: hills and fruitful plains, river-banks and islands, thickets of mimosa, groves of palms and sycamores, towns and villages, everywhere bear essentially the same stamp. But at the rock-masses of the first cataract, which form the last barrier overcome by the stream as it presses towards the sea, Egypt really ends and Nubia begins. No longer does the boat glide smoothly on a surface majestically calm; it has to fight its way among low masses of rock, and among rocky cones that rear themselves above the waves.

Nearing the first cataract, we see, high on a precipitous headland on the left bank, a wretched and yet impressive piece of Arabic architecture, the sepulchre of Sheikh Musas, the patron saint of the first rapids. Further on lies the island of Elephantine, rich in palms, and immediately beyond is Assuan. The way is hemmed in by masses of rock, from whose surface the waves, storming for thousands of years, have not succeeded in obliterating hieroglyphics graven in the time of the Pharaohs. These rocks compel the boat to follow a tortuous course, till at length it finds a safe landing-place in a calm creek, which is, however, so near the rapids that it is resonant with their raging.

It is venerable ground on which we stand. Through the inscriptions in the sacred characters of the ancient Egyptian people, past ages converse with us in intelligible speech. “Ab”, or ivory-store, was the name of the town Elephantine on the island of that name, and the island remains though even the ruins of the town have almost completely disappeared: “Sun” or Syene was the township on the right bank where the modern Assuan stands. Elephantine was the most southerly harbour of the old Egyptians and the capital of the southern Nile district; it was the ancient depot for produce from the interior, especially for ivory, highly prized then as now. “Sun” was probably only a village of working people, but as such by no means of less importance than Elephantine. For near here, from the earliest times, the “Mat” or “Ethiopian stone” of Herodotus was quarried, and was brought to the river-banks to be loaded on the boats, which bore it to its destination. It was from this place that the valuable stone derived the name of Syenite, which it still bears.[77] Inscriptions which are found on monuments dating from the oldest dynasties of Egyptian kings, that is to say from two or three thousand years before the Christian era, make repeated mention of “Sun”, and countless other hieroglyphics in the adjacent quarries testify to the importance of this industrial village. These quarries extend over many square miles of the desert to the east of the cataract. From them were hewn those immense blocks which form the columns, obelisks, cornices, and lintels of the temples, and fill us with wonder and admiration. With them, too, the ancients roofed in the sepulchral chambers of the pyramids, confident that they would bear the stupendous burden piled above them. “All around us here”, says my learned friend Dümichen, “we see how human hands laboured to loosen the valuable stone from the wall of rock, and to immortalize this or that event in sculpture or inscription. Everywhere the rock has become a memorial of the past, and numerous inscriptions, often on the highest peaks of the mountains, proclaim the glory of the divine trinity worshipped by the first province of Upper Egypt--the Cataract-god Chnum-Ra, and his two consorts Sati and Anuke--or celebrate the exploits of Egyptian kings and high officers of state. Some of these go back to the oldest historic times, and yet how young they seem in comparison with the work, which through innumerable ages the Egyptian Sun-god Ra has wrought upon the stone. For the rocks, all around which are as yet untouched by human hand, present to us a surface covered with a dark crust gleaming like enamel; while the cut surfaces of the syenite (to many of which we may certainly ascribe an age of four thousand years) still show, like the blocks in the quarries, the characteristic red of the granite in its pristine vividness--they are still too young to show the impress of Time’s hand.”

From any of the higher peaks on the banks one can get a survey of a part of the cataract. Two deserts meet at the Nile, and join hands across it by means of hundreds of small rocky islands. Every island splits the stream, forcing it into a narrower channel, through which, however, it rushes all the more violently, ceaselessly dashing against the ruins of the rocky barrier through which it burst hundreds of thousands of years ago. The river seems to be intent on sweeping them away to utter destruction, and to be enraged at finding its opponents still invincible. The thunder of its waters resounds in the ears of the spectator above, and seems to him a fit accompaniment to the magnificent scene beneath him. Restless as the ever-flowing waves, the eye travels over the chaos of rocks; it embraces hundreds of single pictures in one glance, and then combines these into one sublime, harmonious whole, the stiff masses of gleaming rock contrasting sharply with the white foam of the hissing water, the golden-yellow deserts that bound them on either side, and the dark, cloudless sky overhead. The upper region of the rapids is especially charming. A chain of black rocks, the natural boundary-wall between Egypt and Nubia, stretches obliquely across the river, and sweeps out on both right and left bank in a wide curve, thus forming before the eye of the spectator a great basin almost completely surrounded by rocky ramparts. These walls consist in part of continuous masses, but in part also of loose blocks--round, oval, and angular--lying one upon the other as though piled up by the hand of some giant. Here and there portions of this wonderful rampart project and again recede; here and there they rise like islands from the bed of the ancient lake which they encircled before the mighty stream broke its way through.

In the midst of these prehistoric ruins lies the green, palm-clad island of Philæ with its stately temple. I know of no more impressive picture than this. Surrounded by dark, rugged rocks, encompassed by the ceaseless roar of the waves as they beat on its foundations, bedecked with fruitful palms and fragrant mimosas, the temple stands--a striking emblem of inner peace amid raging strife. The river shouts its mighty battle-song; the palms wave back an answer of peace. A worthier place could scarcely be found for the worship of the great god to whom it was dedicated. Amid such solitude, and in such an environment, the spirit of the youths whom the wise priests taught must surely have found both nurture and life, must surely have turned to what is high and holy, have recognized the kernel within the sensory symbolism of their cult, and have beheld the veiled image of Sais.

In the sacred trinity--Isis, Osiris, and Horus--to whom the temple of Philæ was dedicated, Isis stood supreme. “Isis, the great goddess, the queen of heaven, sovereign of all gods and goddesses, who with her son Horus and her brother Osiris is worshipped in every city; the exalted, divine mother, the spouse of Osiris, she is the queen of Philæ.” Such is the tenor of the inscriptions in the temple itself. But records in all the different kinds of writing that were in use at various epochs of Egyptian history tell also of the changes which have befallen the temple in the course of ages, down to the time when the Christian priests, who had succeeded the servants of Isis, were driven from the sanctuary by hordes of immigrant Arabs.

To-day the greater part of Philæ is in ruins. Instead of the solemn chant of the priests, one hears only the simple song of the desert-lark; but the waves of the stream still roar in their strength as they did thousands of years ago. The island is desolate, but the peace of the temple has remained to it. And, in spite of all changes, island and temple are still the jewel of the first cataract.[78]

For some distance upwards from this point the Nile is free from rocks, yet quite incapable of bestowing its blessing upon the shore. Laboriously man endeavours to force from the stream what is elsewhere so lavishly bestowed. Wheel after wheel creaks as it raises the life-giving water to the narrow fringe of cultivation along the banks. But in most places the desert and the rocks press so closely on the river that no space is left for field or grove of palms. For long stretches one sees nothing but stunted weeds, between which the yellow drift-sand rolls ceaselessly down, as though it would help the desert even here to a victory over the sacred giver of fruitful land.

To the south of Wady Halfa, the most southern village of the tract above mentioned, the stream again rages among impeding rocky islands. Countless masses of stone, blocks and cones of rock, compel the river to divide its forces; the eye is bewildered by a chaos of rock and water, the like of which is to be seen nowhere else. When the water is high, the roar of the waves whirling and surging between the rocks drowns the human voice; the river rumbles and thunders, rages and blusters, dashes and hisses, so that the very rocks appear to quake.

Beyond the rapids and whirlpools, which at this point are almost continuous, the full-swollen Nile lies like a broad, calm lake; but this pleasant picture, enhanced by the presence of several green islands, is circumscribed by narrow limits. For, further up, the bed of the stream is again divided by countless rocky islands, which mark the beginning of the “Batte el Hadjar”, or “rocky valley” of the boatmen, in which lie no less than ten considerable rapids. It is by far the dreariest region in Nubia, or in the whole Nile valley. From the river there is usually nothing to be seen but sky and water, rock and sand. The rocks rise steeply, sometimes almost vertically, on either bank, and between them and the countless islands the Nile is so cooped up that during its flood-time it reaches a height of 40 to 50 feet above its lowest level.

The rocky banks of the stream are as smooth as if they had been polished; they gleam and glow by day as if they had just left the earth’s fiery interior. The beneficent stream rushes over them, leaving scarcely a trace behind; indeed, only in a very few places can it possibly exercise its prerogative of blessing. Here and there, in receding creeks, or behind projecting bastions, which divert the violent current, the river deposits its fertile mud and may carry a few seeds to a resting-place. Then, even in this wilderness, there is germination and growth, foliage and flowers. On all the islands in whose rocky clefts mud has been caught and kept, and in all the inlets which the current does not sweep, there is a growth of willows and scattered mimosas, evidences of life in the realm of death. When a willow has found a foothold it sends out root after root, shoot after shoot, and soon the naked ground is clothed in enlivening green. While the water is low the willows gradually spread; when the flood comes the waves roll over both island and willow-beds. Higher and higher rises the stream, fiercer and stronger press the waves; the willows bow before them, but keep firm hold of the rocks. For months the flood buries them, all but a few twigs which project above the boiling, hissing waves; yet the roots hold fast, and the shrubs sprout with renewed vigour as soon as the flood subsides. In such pleasant spots, amid the dreary waste, signs of animal life are to be seen, as in some other parts of the Nile valley. Here and there among the willows a pair of Nile-geese have settled, lively and clamorous; on the rock above, the pretty water-wagtail has made its home; from the shore cliffs sounds the song of the blue rock-thrush or the black wheatear; on the blossoming mimosas a gorgeous sun-bird--the first tropical bird one meets--is busily at work; and now and then one may come upon a flock of pretty little rock-partridges. These, and a few others, form the sparse fauna of the rocky valley, but during the migrating season they are often joined by large flocks of birds, who make the course of the stream their highway to the interior, and rest here and there on the journey. But they hasten on again at their utmost speed, since the rocky valley is incapable of supporting them even for a few days; indeed, it is often difficult to understand where they find their daily bread.

But these are not the only settlers in this wilderness of waters. Even men are able to find a home here. At intervals of a mile or more one comes upon a miserable straw hut, in which a Nubian and his family eke out a meagre subsistence. A small creek between the precipices on the shore filled with fertile mud, or it may be only a deposit of mud upon the rocks themselves, forms the paltry farm which he cultivates. The owner of a creek is rich compared with his poor neighbour who can call himself master only of a mere mud-bed. At the risk of his life the latter swims to spots which are inaccessible on foot, and sows some beans on the mud-plot from which the falling stream has just receded. Some days later, when the river has sunk still lower, he repeats his visit and his sowing operations, and so proceeds on the parts of the mud-bank successively uncovered as long as the river continues to fall. Thus at such places one sees fields of beans at all stages of growth, becoming broader as the water sinks; and the frugal husbandman is engaged at once with sowing and reaping. In the most favourable circumstances a deeply receding inlet, filled with Nile mud, makes it possible for the farmer to erect a water-wheel and to irrigate a field a few acres in extent. The fortunate possessor is then able to keep a cow, and to live at least in tolerable comfort, although he is still so poor that even the Egyptian government does not venture to burden him with taxes. But such places are rare oases in this forbidding waste. The boatman, fighting his way up-stream, welcomes every bush; he greets a palm-tree with manifest joy, a bean-field, perhaps hoped for all day long, with exultation, a water-wheel with thanks to the All-merciful. For it is not merely that his bold spirit has learned to know fear in this valley of rocks, but also because he knows well that, should his supply of provisions fail, bitter want would befall him, and starvation stare him in the face. Down-stream the well-steered boat speeds rapidly through this land of desolation and poverty; but sailing up-stream it often lies, as if spell-bound, for hours, or even days, at a time, waiting for a favourable wind, sheltered by a rock from the force of a rapid. The boatman, who becomes “sea-sick” with the incessant rocking of his craft, may roam or swim for miles without coming upon men or fields.

At its southern limit the rocky valley passes almost abruptly into the fertile country of middle Nubia. Before the traveller lies a narrow basin shut in by two deserts, and with several large islands in its midst. The basin is filled with mud, and of this the islands are composed. Though we do not yet find all the wealth of tropical life, there are hints of it in the freshness and vigour of both fauna and flora. Almost continuous palm-groves, in which ripen the most delicious dates in the world, border this pleasant oasis in which the labours of the husbandman are rewarded by rich harvests. Christ-thorns and various mimosas, not hitherto seen, give evidence that we have crossed the equator. Besides the sun-bird already mentioned, there are now other birds characteristic of the interior of Africa. In the first dhurra-field which one carefully observes, the eyes are gladdened by a sight of the fiery weaver-bird, as beautiful as it is agile, which has its home among the stems, and from time to time appears like a flash of fire on the top of an ear, uttering from this perch its simple whirring and buzzing song, and inciting others of its kind to a like display. In the holes and crevices of the mud-huts other members of the family, especially steel-finches and blood-finches, have established themselves; in the gardens round the houses the cape-pigeons have settled; on the sand-banks in the stream have been hollowed out the shallow mud-nests of the shear-waters or skimmers--night-terns, of peculiar habit, who do not begin to seek their prey until the twilight, and fish, not by diving, but by skimming over the waves and rapidly ploughing the water with their bills, thus catching small creatures which swim on or near the surface.

But this cheerful region has narrow limits. Below the ruined temple of Barkal the desolate and barren hills again encroach on the river, excluding fertile land and steppe alike. The last group of rapids now lies before the traveller who is making his way up-stream. The region of the third group of cataracts is not so unutterably poor as the rocky valley. Well-tilled, though narrow, strips of land lie on either bank, and there are fertile islands in mid-stream; thus there is not that look of hopeless poverty which is characteristic of the region already traversed. The masses of rock on the banks are more broken up than those in the rocky valley, and there are many of the so-called “stone-seas”, hillocks and walls of wildly jumbled blocks and rolled stones, such as mighty streams leave behind when they dig their bed deeper in the valley. On each side, usually on the top of the cliff next the stream, there are great blocks of more than a hundred cubic yards in bulk, which rest so loosely on their substratum that they oscillate in violent wind, and could be hurled down by a few men with levers. In many places these stone-seas present a most extraordinary appearance. It seems just as if giants had for a whim amused themselves by erecting cones and pyramids, mounds and ramparts to form a weirdly-disordered parapet on the river’s rocky embankment. But it is not so much to this strange natural architecture as to ancient works of man’s own hand, that the third group of rapids owes its characteristic appearance. On all suitable rock-projections, and especially on the larger islands, rise buildings with inclosing walls, towers, and jagged battlements, such as are not seen elsewhere in the Nile valley. These are fortifications of ancient days, castles of the river-chiefs, erected for protection and defiance, to secure life and property against the invasions of hostile neighbouring tribes. The ramparts and battlements are built of unhewn stones, rudely piled one upon the other, usually cemented only with Nile mud; the thick walls of the superstructure, roofed with sun-dried mud-tiles, have for the most part fallen or are still falling. These fortresses impress one not so much by their architecture as by the boldness of their position. A naked, deep-black, glistening rock rises from the midst of the rushing waters, and bears on its summit one of these forts. The waves beat wildly around its base, but it stands absolutely unshaken by any flood, and towers aloft, an impregnable refuge. On the down-stream side, in the shelter of the rock, the life-giving stream has added beauty to sublimity. For in the course of ages the mud accumulated in the still-water, and an island gradually rose above the flood. On this fertile island man planted palms and laid out fields; and thus, among the rocks there arose a pleasing scene of security and comfort, all the more impressive in its contrast to the wilderness of restless water and barren rock.

At the southern boundary of the third group of rapids begin the steppes and forests of tropical Africa, in which rocks are found only here and there on the banks of the main stream and its great tributaries. For over 450 miles the Bahr-el-Abiad and Bahr-el-Azrek, the White and the Blue Nile, flow through a fruitful and almost flat country; thereafter there are again some rapids. But they do not belong to the picture whose chief outlines I have been endeavouring to sketch: Nubia alone is the land of the Nile cataracts.

While it is difficult to tell to what degree the Nubian has been influenced by his surroundings, or made by them the manner of man he is, this at least may be safely said, that he is as markedly differentiated from his neighbour, the modern Egyptian, as his home is different from the land of Egypt. The truth is, they have nothing in common, neither race nor speech, neither customs nor habits, scarcely even religion, although both to-day repeat the creed, “There is but one God, and Mohammed is His prophet”.