Chapter XI: A Morning with St. Peter (3)

The position of the Russian Church is utterly self-contradictory and untenable. By a special mercy of divine Providence it has been kept from coming to a general and clear consciousness of the fundamental heresy, which lies latent in the Byzantine pretence of equality to the Roman Church, from which the schism took its rise. The immobility which has characterized it, and to which the privation of all authority independent of the state has greatly contributed, has kept it from committing itself to any formal heresy. It has broken its connection, but it has not run off the track or fallen through a bridge. We cannot suppose that it will long remain stationary on the great road along which the march of events, the progress of history, is proceeding. It seems to be awaiting the propitious moment when, reunited to the source of spiritual power, it shall again move on in the line of true progress. When this event takes place, we may safely predict that the name of Natalie Narischkin will be honored in Russia together with that of Alexander Newski, the special patron of the imperial family; and that the empire will be filled with convents of the Daughters of Charity, the countrywomen and imitators of her who, more illustrious by her virtue than by her descent, was appropriately named “The Pearl of the Order.”

UP THE NILE.
III.

We had a letter of introduction to the Governor of Assouan from a person we had never seen. It came about in this way: Ali Murad, our consul at Thebes, sent by Ahmud a letter to his friend, the governor of Edfoo, asking him to give us a letter to his excellency at Assouan. This letter, worded in the usual extravagant style of the Orient, stated that the dahabeeáh _Sitta Mariam_ contained a party of distinguished travellers who were in high favor at Cairo, and should everywhere be received with the greatest kindness and attention. His excellency was a fine-looking negro, well dressed in European style, patent-leather boots, fancy cane. I looked at first for eye-glasses, but on second thought concluded that this was too much to expect from him. He came on board to visit us, accompanied by his secretaries and servants, very pompous and haughty in his bearing towards the crew, polite—nay, almost obsequious—to us. Head sheik of the cataracts is on board; a deal of talking by every one at the same time; no one listening; a lull; governor lights a fresh cigar; secretaries, servants, and crew roll cigarettes; Reis Mohammed appears with the certificate of tonnage. There is no fear of obliteration or erasure in this; no danger of wearing out or the characters fading by lapse of time. It might have belonged to the pleasure barge of antiquity-hidden Menes or one of the corn-boats of the Hyksos. It was a bar of solid iron three inches wide, four long, and half an inch in thickness. Deeply-cut figures showed the boat to be of 380 ardebs burden. An agreement was finally entered into: Ahmud was to pay the sheik nine pounds and ten shillings to take the boat up and down the cataracts, exclusive of backsheesh. Out of this the governor received two pounds and ten shillings as his commission. This making arrangements for ascending the cataracts is the most serious drawback to the pleasure of a Nile voyage. True, the dragoman undertakes this, but the howadjii are present and witnesses of the altercations, the loud talking, and the great noise and confusion attendant upon it. We being such distinguished travellers on paper, and the governor being impressed with that fact, our contract was entered into with less confusion than is usually incident to this arrangement. Four sheiks or chiefs of the cataract control the proceedings. This office is hereditary, and formerly they were despotic in the exercise of their power. Twenty English or American sailors could take a boat up the cataract in one-third the time it took nearly two hundred natives to perform that office for us. But no dragoman would dare incur the enmity of these powerful sheiks by attempting the ascent without their permission. Their power is somewhat curtailed now by orders from the viceroy, so that instead of, as heretofore, extorting as much as possible from the frightened dragoman, their prices are regulated by a fixed tariff—so much for every hundred ardebs.

We are now fairly started on the ascent; it is early in the morning, and a light breeze is blowing from the north. The head sheik is on board. What an appropriate name he has! Surely his father was a prophet and foresaw the future life of his son—Mohammed Nogood! Not the slightest particle of good did he do. He squatted on a mat, smoked his pipe, and took no heed of what passed around him. Old Nogood, as we called him, was with us for three days, and during that time he never opened his mouth unless to grumble, and never raised his hand except to remove the pipe from his mouth, being too lazy even to light it; a sailor performed that onerous duty for him.

We sailed through narrow, tortuous channels against a rapid stream to the island of Sheyál at the foot of the first bab or gate. The first cataract, as it is termed, is a series of five short rapids on the eastern shore, where the ascent is made, and one long and one short one on the western shore. These rapids are called gates. We stopped at the foot of the first. Three finely-built Nubians, _in puris naturalibus_, save turbans on their heads, came sailing down the turbulent and surging waters astride of logs. Borne on with great velocity, they seize hold of our boat as they reach it, in a moment are on deck, their heads bare, the turbans girded around their loins. “Backsheesh, howadjii!” They deserve it for this feat. It made the howadjii shudder to see them in these raging waters. An impromptu row now springs up between our pilot and old Nogood. The boat is aground, and more help is needed to push it off. Here is the dialogue, as translated by Ahmud:

Pilot (old man with gray whiskers, costume soiled and tattered coffee-bag): “O Mohammed Nogood! send some of your people to move the boat.”

Old Nogood: “O pilot, you jack-ass! why do you not attend to the helm and mind your business?”

Intense excitement on board, during which the pilot swears by Allah and the Prophet that he will not stay on the boat after such an insult, and goes off in high dudgeon. The howadjii, having locked up everything portable below stairs, are seated on the quarter-deck enjoying the scene in a mild manner, and waiting to see what will come next. The prospects of being kept here for an indefinite time are delightful. The head sheik is angry and the pilot has disappeared. But the silver lining of the dark cloud soon shines out. The second sheik takes command, and Nogood’s son comes aboard as pilot—very unlike his father, a hard worker and a quiet sort of man. We are ready to start now, but where are the men to pull us up? None can be seen. The river is here filled with broken and disjointed rocks—small islets. A great fall was here once, no doubt; hence the rapids now. The sheik throws two handfuls of sand in the air. Immediately from all sides, like the warriors of Roderick Dhu, rise the Shellallee. From behind every rock come forth a score or more. Three long ropes are made fast to the boat. A hundred men take hold of two; the third is turned two or three times around a rock, the end being held by a dozen men. This rope is gradually tightened as the boat moves up, to hold it in case the others should break. By the united help of the wind and this struggling mass of naked humanity we move slowly up the first gate, not ten yards long. In the same manner we pass the second and third gates. Our friends the log-riders are useful to us now. Plunging into the boiling, seething waters, that rush with such force it seems impossible for man to struggle against them, they make ropes fast to this rock; now they detach them, and, taking the end between their teeth, swim to another and make fast again. Picture to yourself such a scene, if you can. I cannot describe it satisfactorily to myself. Hear, if you can, nearly two hundred men all shouting at the same time, giving orders, suggesting means, no one listening, no one obeying, each acting for himself—Old Nogood alone seated quietly on the deck smoking his pipe; our boat possessed by four score of these black Shellallee, half-naked, running to and fro, shouting and yelling, but doing nothing to help us. Pandemonium itself could scarce furnish such a scene of confusion. Babel was a tower of silence compared with this discord. After passing the third gate we sailed into a quiet haven and moored there for the night. It was only three P.M. But they are five-hour men here, commencing work at ten and stopping at three. We were kept waiting all the next day, as two other boats were ahead of us, and they took them up first. On the third morning we left our moorings and sailed under a fresh breeze about one hundred yards up the stream to the fourth gate. The fourth and fifth are in reality but one continuous rapid; but as a stoppage is made when half-way up to readjust the ropes, the natives divide it into two gates. The water rushes here with great rapidity—more so than in the other gates, as these are narrower. A stout rope was made fast to the cross-beams of the deck on the starboard bow, and the other end carried around a rock some distance off. Owing to some mistake there was no rope on the port side. The men were pulling on a rope carried directly ahead, when it suddenly parted; the boat swung around to starboard and struck a rock with great force, knocking off several planks six inches thick and seven feet long. They were picked up by the felluka, which floated around promiscuously, manned by five small boys. These planks were carved in scroll-work, and painted in bright colors. Reis Mohammed had carefully bound straw around them before starting, so that they might not even be scratched. He clenched his teeth and swore like a trooper; the only words intelligible to us were “Allah,” “Merkeb,” “Mohammed.” Reis Mohammed Hassan, Nogood’s successor, was standing on the awning piled up on the front of the quarter-deck. Every one else began to shout, gesticulate, and run around to no purpose; but he, shouting while he undressed, threw off his gown and turban, and, with his drawers on, jumped overboard, swam to a rock on the port side, and made fast a rope. A Nubian, attired in a girdle, now waded out into the rapid as far as he was able, and a rope was thrown him from the rock against which the boat rested. After three attempts he caught it and made it fast some distance ahead. A fourth rope was carried ashore and seized hold of by sixty men. We were then pulled into a narrow pass, through which the water dashed like a mill-race, and so narrow that the boat grazed the rocks on either side. For a moment we remained stationary; the next the strong wind and the efforts of the men overcame the force of the current, and we moved slowly on. Shortly after we reached the head of the rapids, the ropes were withdrawn, the Nubians left us, and we sailed gallantly up to Philæ the beautiful.

We are now in Nubia, among a different race of people. We have passed the cataract. Hear the concise account given by the father of travellers concerning this ascent: “I went as far as Elephantine,” he says, “and beyond that obtained information from hearsay. As one ascends the river above the city of Elephantine the country is steep; here, therefore, it is necessary to attach a rope on both sides of a boat as one does with an ox in a plough, and so proceed; but if the rope should happen to break, the boat is carried away by the force of the stream.” This land of Cosh is very different in appearance from the one we have just left. The hills are mostly of granite and sandstone, and they approach nearer the river. In some parts the mere sloping bank, not more than ten feet, can be cultivated in a perfectly straight line; on its top the golden sands meet the growing crops. The river is filled with sunken rocks. Had we struck here, it might have been serious, unlike running on the sand-banks in the lower country. Reis Dab, our new pilot, knew the river well and kept a sharp lookout; so on we sailed day after day without stopping. There are no printed newspapers along the Nile, but the natives have a cheap, primitive method of journalism. They need no expensive press, no reporters to search far and wide for news. As soon as another boat appears in sight all is excitement on board. When we come within hailing distance the journals are exchanged as follows: Far away over the waters comes a voice from the approaching boat: “How are you all? Who are you? All well?”

“We are dahabeeáh _Sitta Mariam_, Father H—— and party on board. Who are you?”

“How is Mohammed? Fatima has a sore foot. Ali has gone up the river on a corn-boat.” And thus they go on telling all the news. “How many boats up the river? What is going on further down?” The shouting is kept up until the boat passes out of hearing. When we reached Syria, in April, our dragoman there, who had never been in Egypt, knew all about our movements on the Nile. They were communicated from one to another simply by word of mouth, and finally reached his ears.

It is a bright, beautiful moonlight evening. The glittering constellations are reflected deep down in the calm waters beneath us, so distinctly that they seem to have fallen there. Not a ripple disturbs the surface of the water, scarce a breath the stillness of the air. It is a gala night. Ahmud has distributed candles and hasheesh to the crew. They have illuminated the deck and are playing, singing, and dancing. Reis Ahmud, with a sober face, beats the drum, his whole soul seemingly concerned in his occupation. Abiad has the tamborine, a pretty one, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He has been smoking hasheesh—his favorite pastime. His eyes are closed, his head sways backwards and forwards as he sings; he seems to pour out his very life’s spirit in the song. The rest of the crew group around, squatted on the deck, joining in the chorus. Reis Mohammed sits apart; he is fishing. Ahmud, Ali, Ibrahim, and the Nubian pilot look on. Now they become excited; the hasheesh is working on them. Louder, still louder the singing. Abiad surely will not live long; he must be in Paradise now. His soul is going out piece by piece from his lips. The funny little old cook jumps up, puts a wooden spoon in his belt for a pistol, some sugar-cane stalks for swords and daggers. He is a Bedouin. More uproarious the shouting, intermingled with catcalls. He dances the war-dance of the nomadic sons of the desert. The howadjii have come out now; they are interested in this strange, picturesque scene. The excitement is at its height. A lighted candle is placed upon a small stick and put in the river; the current carries it down still burning. There is not wind enough to blow out the flame, and as it floats onward it looks like some will-o’-the-wisp or fairy spirit of the waters reposing serenely on their bosom. The second stage of the hasheesh now comes on; one by one they quiet down. Soon Abiad falls asleep; some of the others follow; a strange stillness succeeds this hilarious uproar. To-morrow will come the reaction, and for a few days they will do but little work.

We have had great trouble to keep our birds. We have now preserved some seventy specimens, from the small black chat to the large crane. The rats will carry them off. So now we suspend them from the centre of the ceiling. The same rat never carries away two birds. I cannot identify each particular rat, and yet I am morally certain of the truth of the above proposition. The skin, when taken off the bird, is covered on the inside with a heavy coating of arsenical soap containing a large amount of arsenic, enough to cut short the career of at least one rat. So if they did carry off our birds, we had the satisfaction of knowing that the birds carried them off in turn. We have been very anxious to kill a crocodile; they are very scarce below the first cataract, but as soon as we passed Philæ we promulgated the following general offer: To the first man who points out a crocodile to any of the howadjii we will give a half-sovereign. If the pilot, or any one in his stead, brings us within reasonable shooting distance, we will present him with one pound; if we kill and secure the crocodile, we will make presents all around. This offer kept them on the alert. Every eye was strained to see the first crocodile—and it takes a practised eye to discern one; for to the uninitiated they appear to be logs of wood lying on the sand. Early on the morning of January 15 the pilot came to us with eyes aglow and pointed out a timsah (crocodile). We were tied up on the west bank, and the reptile was lying on a sand-bank near the eastern shore. There was considerable difference of opinion among the crew, many of them insisting that it was not a timsah. “But,” asks the pilot, “what is it, then? There are no rocks on the sand-banks; it can scarcely be a log, for these are rarely met with in this part of the river.” A council of war was held, and a plan of attack was determined on. Mr. S—— and I, with Ali, the pilot, and four sailors, crossed the river to the sand-bank about half a mile below the spot where slept the timsah in blissful unconsciousness of the fate awaiting him. Bent almost to the ground, we crawled cautiously along. When we had proceeded about a quarter of a mile we found, to our disgust, that the bank upon which we were was separated from the bank on which lay the timsah by twenty yards of water of some depth. The pilot now asked us to fire, but the distance was too great, and we began to be suspicious. The timsah did not move; it was almost too quiet to be real. Mr. S—— and I placed ourselves in the bow of the boat, covered the object with our double-barrelled guns, and ordered the sailors to pull directly towards it. For a few moments the excitement was intense. At the first movement of the timsah four bullets would have shot forth on their death-errand. Nearer and nearer we came. A moment more, and Abiad jumps from the boat, and with a loud shout rushes up the bank and catches hold of the supposed timsah. “Come here, O Reis Dab!” cried he, “and skin your timsah. Stop, I will do it for you.” And he holds up to our astonished eyes a sheepskin. How crestfallen was the pilot, and how the others joked him! It was a chicken-coop covered with a sheepskin, containing three putrid chickens, which had fallen from some dahabeeáh, and, carried by the current on the bank, became embedded there, and was left high and dry when the waters receded.

We have a number of pets on board: a live turtle, a soft-shelled fellow, in color like the mud of its own Nile; a hawk who does not reciprocate our friendship, and snaps at us when we go near him; six chameleons—what strange creatures these are! We have had some twenty of them at different times. As far as we could observe, they ate nothing, and yet throve well as long as we were in their own latitudes. As we returned towards the north they died one after the other. The chameleon is formed somewhat like a lizard, about eight inches in length. Their feet look like a mittened hand—that is to say, a large toe corresponds to the thumb, and the rest of the foot, being solid, appears like the hand enclosed in a mitten. They have very large heads compared with their bodies, and eyes like a frog. They change their color, and, under my own observation, made the changes from light green to yellow, black, brown, blue, and dark green. We would tease them sometimes, and, when irritated, yellow spots would appear over their bodies, and they would try to bite us as we placed our fingers in their large mouths. Their favorite pastime was to climb to the top of a palm branch fastened in the deck; here the first one would remain. The second would hang from the tail of the first, and the third support himself from the second in the same manner. In this position they would remain for hours. If another one wanted to reach the top of the branch, he would crawl deliberately up the backs of the others, who regarded this conversion of themselves into public highways with perfect indifference. Sometimes one of them would roam away and be lost for a day or two, and then be accidentally found in the centre of a basket of tomatoes or on the summit of the main-yard.

On January 17 I strolled into a small village. The houses consisted of four walls of sun-dried clay with a small opening for a doorway; some few had palm branches stretched from wall to wall—apologies for roofs. As I walked on I met a group of young girls; one was reclining on the ground, while the others were dressing her hair. This operation is a very tedious one, and is not repeated oftener than once a month. The hair, which falls to the shoulders, is twisted into numerous braids, the ends of which are fastened with small balls of mud; and to complete the toilet oil is poured over the head. The hair being black and coarse, and the oil giving it a glossy appearance, it presents the effect of braided black tape. Although many of these girls had beautiful eyes and handsome features, yet the howadjii never cared to approach too near them; for the oil runs down in little streams from the crown of their heads to their feet, and their faces appear as if polished with the best French varnish. Our young Nubian cook left us here. This is his home, and he will remain here until we return. He is only twenty years of age, and has not seen his wife for three years. So he takes out of the hold some bracelets, a dozen or two made of buffalo horn, all for his wife, and she will wear them all at the same time, half on each arm. How her eyes will brighten when she sees those bright tin pots and those robes, green, yellow, blue! Surely Suleymán must love his dark-eyed, oily-faced wife. From Assouan to Wady Sabooa, about one hundred miles, no Arabic is spoken. Thence to Wady Halfa it is spoken in many towns. When we pass through a town the whole population turn out _en masse_, preceded by a leader, who carries on his shoulder the town gun, an old flint-lock musket, generally marked Dublin Castle, carried, mayhap, at Yorktown or Brandywine. A barrel of great length is secured to the stock by six or seven brass bands. Powder is scarce, and the first demand—the gun being put forward to show the need—is always the same: “Barood ta howadjii” (Powder, O howadjii!) We used cartridges altogether, and sometimes, when they were particularly green, we imposed upon them in this way:

Scene, the river-bank. Howadjii has just fired and brought down a bird. Large numbers of Nubians surround him. Gunman comes forward: “Barood ta howadjii.” “Mafish barood ta Wallud” (I have no powder, O boy!) “See these green boxes” (showing cartridges). Wallud looks attentively at them. “Inside each is an afreet [spirit or devil]; we put this in the end of the gun, point it at the bird, 'Imshee y afreet’ (Go, O spirit!), then off he flies and kills the bird.” This ruse was successful two or three times; they looked with awe upon the green boxes, and made no further demands. Often, however, a shout of derision followed this recital. They knew what cartridges were as well as we did. Reis Ahmud pointed out the first real timsah, and received the promised half-sovereign.

On January 19, 1874, at three P.M., we made fast beneath the ever-open eyes of the giant guardians of rock-hewn Ipsamboul. To my mind Ipsamboul, or Aboo-Simbel, is the most interesting temple on the Nile, not even excepting majestic Karnak; for most of the other temples are built in the same manner in which the edifices of the world have been constructed from the earliest ages down to the present time, by stones cut and squared, placed one upon another and held together by clamps, cement, or other means. True, the style and shape in which these stones are cut and arranged differ very much in Egypt and in Greece, in ancient and in modern times; but the taking of numbers of small pieces, and, by joining them together, forming a whole, is common to them all. Aboo-Simbel is not constructed in this way. The side of the mountain facing the river was cut to form a right angle with the surface of the plain, and made smooth and even as a wall, save some projections purposely left at regular distances, and which afterwards were shaped into gigantic figures of victorious Rameses; a small hole was pierced into this surface a few feet above the ground; it was made larger, and carried in further and further full two hundred feet, its roof seemingly upheld by Osiride columns. A similar gallery was cut on either side of this main one. Transverse galleries crossed these, leading to rooms ten in number, and all this cut out of the solid rock, no cement, no clamps, not a joint anywhere—a huge monolithic temple. The inside of the roof is perfectly regular in its lines, with a smooth, even surface; the outside is the rugged mountain top. Surely this was the way to build for immortality.

This style of building, although rare, is not confined to Egypt alone, but was most probably copied from it. I have since seen it in the Brahmin caves of Elephanta in Bombay harbor, and on a small scale in the tombs of the Valley of Josaphat. The temple faces the river and stands close to the bank. As we approach we are struck by the magnitude of the four colossal figures of Rameses II. They are seated on thrones, and the faces that remain are quite expressive. The height without the pedestal is sixty-six feet; the forefinger is three feet in length. Father H——, Madam, and I seated ourselves comfortably on the big toe, and, as I looked upwards into that gigantic face, I thought of the myriads of events, marking epochs of time, that had happened in the great world outside since first the sculptor’s hand had changed the rugged mountain side into these semblances of their warrior-king. The overturner of his dynasty, the illustrious Sesac, had led the victorious Egyptians into the very heart of the Holy City, and carried off from the Temple the golden shields which Solomon had there hung up. Cambyses had marched with thundering tread, laying waste on every hand with fire and sword from Pelusium to Thebes, making this once mighty kingdom a province of far-off Persia. Greece rose from a handful of half-savage shepherds to be the focus of intellect, art, and science, around which clustered the shining lights of the world. Alexander overran the whole of Western Asia, and established in the Delta his mighty race of Macedonian emperors. Rome was founded, sat on her seven hills the proud mistress of the world, fell, and was swallowed up in the rush of succeeding generations. Christianity, starting from its humble Judean home, spread from sea to sea, from the peasant’s hut to the royal palace, revolutionized the world, civilized nations, and, encircling the globe, led back its proselytes to unfold its sacred truths to the descendants of its apostles. Mohammedanism carried its bloody and relentless arms over the vast plains of Asia, through the fruitful valley of the Nile, to the centre of Continental Europe, and was driven back, tottering and gradually receding, to its Eastern cradle. The great republics of the middle ages lived their short span of power, and were lost in the mighty empires that absorbed them. A new world was discovered, and new governments founded therein. And during all this, unshaken by war or tempest, unmoved by change or revolution, these giant figures gazed with never-closing eye upon the swift-flowing river at their feet. Those who give themselves the trouble to inform the world that a perfectly unknown person has visited a monument, and that that unknown person has mutilated it by inscribing his name thereon—a reprehensible practice unfortunately so common in Egypt—may study here the earliest known inscription of this kind. On the leg of one of the figures is cut in rude characters the following inscription in Greek: “King Psamatichus having come to Elephantine, those that were with Psamatichus, the son of Theocles, wrote this. They sailed and came to above Kerkis, to where the river rises ... the Egyptian Amasis. The writer was Damearchon, the son of Amoebichus, and Pelephus, the son of Udamus.” This was written at least six hundred and fifty years before Christ, and the scribblers, desirous of cheap notoriety, are as unknown as their numerous followers who now disfigure the monuments of the world.

Over the entrance is a statue of the god Ra (Sun), to whom Rameses offers a figure of truth. We enter a grand hall supported by eight Osiride pillars, pass through it to a second of four square pillars which leads to the _adytum_. A number of small chambers are found on both sides of the main hall, and the interior of the walls is covered with intaglio figures and hieroglyphics. At the end of the _adytum_ are four figures in high relief. There is but one opening to the temple—the entrance door—through which alone light can enter. As the first rays of the morning sun were peeping over the Arabian hills, we climbed the steep bank and entered the temple. A flood of golden light poured in, searching every corner, lighting up the figures at the end of the _adytum_ full two hundred feet from the entrance. It seemed as though mighty Ra, as each morn he rose to shower his beneficence upon the world, looked first with soul-melting tenderness upon the home where he would love to linger; slowly he moves on, and with a last fond, longing look he leaves it in darkness till he return next morn. Bats swarm now in its gloomy chambers, and dispute the right of entrance with the howadjii. Alongside the large temple is a smaller one of the same description. A night or two after this we had an altercation on board wherein Reis Mohammed met his match. It was about nine o’clock on a beautiful moonlight night. We were sailing before a light breeze, when suddenly the boat struck a rock. Reis Mohammed winced as though it were himself grating on the rock, and, rushing up to the Nubian pilot who was at the helm, swore by Allah that he would beat him with a stick. The pilot was not at all intimidated. He said in a quiet way that he was sorry, but reminded the irate captain that he was now in his—the pilot’s—country, and that if he struck him he would call out to his people on the bank, who would come aboard and kill the captain. This ended the affair. On January 22 Ahmud brought a beautiful little gazelle on board, for Madam to play with, as he said. She named it Saiida, and it soon became a great favorite with us all. At four P.M. of the same day we reached our destination and tied up at Wady Halfa, a long-stretched-out line of mud-built houses on the east bank. We had travelled seven hundred and ninety-eight miles in forty-one days, including stoppages. A two hours’ donkey-ride over the sands of the desert, and we reached the Ultima Thule of Nile travellers—the rock of Abooseer, overlooking the second cataract. This is much more wild, rapid, and turbulent than the first, and, excepting when the Nile is at its greatest height, is impassable. Almost every traveller who has been here has left his mark upon this rock—a custom which is to be approved here; for no beauty is defaced, but a register of travellers is kept which possesses interest to their friends who may subsequently visit this place. There were six dahabeeáhs there on our arrival, four of them flying the United States flag. We made our presents to the men. They brought us in safety up the Nile; will they do the same going down? So we gave Reis Mohammed one pound, Reis Ahmud ten shillings, one pound each to Ali, Ibrahim, and the cook; and two pounds and ten shillings to be divided among the crew. While we were lying at Wady Halfa the crew prepared the boat for the downward voyage. They took down the trinkeet or large yard from the foremast, and placed in its stead the smaller one from the stern. There are three modes of progression in descending. If there be no wind at all, the men row, five oars on each side; but when the surface of the stream is ruffled by the slightest breath of wind, the men immediately stop rowing, and the boat drifts down with the current. If the wind blow from the south—which is very unusual during the winter—we sail, using, however, only the small balakoom, swung, as I have said, from the mainmast. Some of the planks of the deck are taken up, and an inclined plane made by resting one end of a plank against the cross-beams on a level with the floor of the deck, and the other touching the bottom of the hold. In rowing the men start from the top of this inclined plane, and, walking backwards down it, make five distinct movements in each stroke. As their feet touch the hold they sit down and pull out the stroke.

On January 25, at one in the morning, we left Wady Halfa on the homeward voyage. Ahmud requested us to permit him to bring a slave on the boat. He told us that he had no children, and that he had seen a very fine little boy of nine years whom he could purchase for seventy dollars. His request was refused. We spent an hour or more one beautiful moonlight night seated on the sand beneath the colossi of Aboo-Simbel. We engaged a celebrated hunter to assist us in crocodile-hunting—Abd-el-Kerim, slave of the god, a Nubian with a huge flat nose. The dress of this man of prowess was not elaborate, consisting of a skull-cap and a pair of drawers. He carried the flint-lock musket which I have before described. The lock was carefully bound up in a piece of cloth. We moored the dahabeeáh on the west bank about four miles below Aboo-Simbel. We then rowed about a mile up the river in the small boat, and landed on a sand-bank. Abd-el-Kerim constructed a crocodile of sand—head, tail, legs, and all. We had laid a systematic plan of attack. At sunrise the next morning we were to conceal ourselves behind the sand timsah and wait the coming of the natural ones, thinking that they would take our sand-constructed reptile for one of the family, and go quietly asleep alongside of it. I rose before the sun the next morning, but Kerim did not make his appearance until eight o’clock—he called it sunrise—when the sun was pretty well up in the heavens, and the day began to grow warm. As I stood on the forecastle waiting for him, two Polish dahabeeáhs hove in sight. I knew the party on board; they were distinguished naturalists who were collecting specimens for the museum at Warsaw. They hunted in the most thoroughly systematic manner. The young count, who was not as deeply engaged in the study of natural history as the others, spent an evening with us a week or two afterward, and told us a very amusing story about the rest of the party. They were anxious to secure a certain species of bird. After consulting their books and putting together the general knowledge they possessed concerning the habits of this bird, they established as a positive fact that the said bird would appear on the banks of the Nile at ten o’clock to perform his morning ablutions. So at half-past nine they went out to meet him, but, to their intense astonishment, he did not appear until half-past eleven—overslept himself, no doubt, not being aware of the distinguished company awaiting him. They have been in a great state of excitement ever since, said our young friend, endeavoring to study out the cause of this strange proceeding, as they termed it, of the bird being one hour and a half behind time. As I watched the boats came on, and our sand timsah caught the eye of their dragoman. He rushed down-stairs, woke up the howadjii, who soon appeared on deck. Telescopes were levelled, and, having satisfied themselves that it was a crocodile, they jumped into the small boat and made straight for it. Two of them were in the bow with their rifles cocked covering the timsah. The greatest care and caution were observed. Only a small portion of the heads of the men were visible above the gunwale, and occasionally I could see the dragoman wave his hand as a signal of caution. Finally they stepped on the bank, cautiously approached, saw the deception, and in quick haste retired in evident disgust. I enjoyed this scene all the more as it partially recompensed me for the failure of my first attempt at shooting a crocodile.

About half-past eight Kerim and I concealed ourselves behind the sand timsah, lying flat on our backs. Besides his old flint-lock, which would do good service, we had two double-barrelled guns loaded with heavy balls, and a six-barrelled revolver. I lay in this position for two hours, not even daring to indulge in a cough, which I was sorely tried to repress, and even breathing as quietly as possible. Kerim touched me and told me to peep over the back of the timsah; I did so, and saw ten crocodiles, some swimming in the water and others on the banks, but none near enough to shoot at. I then turned on my face and lay down again. Almost immediately an enormous crocodile stepped out of the water on the bank where we were, within ten feet of us, but seemed to be frightened at something and immediately plunged in again. About two o’clock Kerim turned over, and in so doing spied a flask protruding from my pocket. He took it out, offered it to me, and said, “Take a drink!”—a delicate hint that he wanted some himself. He did not refuse when I offered it, but, filling the cup with twice as much as an ordinary drink, he swallowed it down, rolled his eyes, and ejaculated, “Taib” (good). We found it would be of no avail to wait longer here, so we called the felluka and rowed very quietly a short distance down the stream to a bank upon which two timsahs were lying asleep; at the other end were some rocks. We crept over the rocks until we reached the one nearest the reptiles. At least one hundred yards still separated us from them. Resting my gun on a rock, I took careful aim, fired, and saw the ball strike the side of one of the crocodiles; but its only effect was to hurry him into the river, otherwise he paid no attention to it. We concluded to give up crocodile-hunting now, so we sailed on. At one point a little below this I counted thirty-eight sawagi in sight at one time. These sawagi (singular sagéar) are to Nubia what the shawadeefs are to Egypt. They are of Persian origin, and consist of an endless chain, to which are attached buckets made of burnt clay. The chain passes over a wheel at the top, which is made to revolve by another wheel driven around by buffaloes. These wheels are of wood and never greased. Their creaking and straining are music to the owner’s ears, who in some instances will travel many thousand miles riding the buffaloes round the well-worn circle of their own loved sagéar.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.
FROM THE FRENCH.

JULY 28, 1869.

Lord William is in England, and baby Emmanuel in vain asks for “papa.” What a beautiful child he is! My Guy is very handsome also, and I am proud of him. Johanna yields up to me all her prerogatives, and, were it not that he resembles Paul, I could persuade myself that he is quite my own, my dear godson.

Berthe intends to go to Lourdes, to obtain from Mary Immaculate the cure of her daughter. Poor mother! she deceives herself; the child cannot remain in this world, and the day approaches when we shall say, Yesterday the bird was in the cage, but is now flown hence! This morning Anna and the sick girl were leaning over my balcony, looking at the blue sky, over which light clouds were flying. “How beautiful the sky is!” said Anna. “Very sweet, very beautiful, very good,” answered Picciola, joining her hands. “The beauties of nature are admirable, but—” “Kiss me, dear, and don’t look up to heaven in that way; one would think you were going there!” “The truth is that I shall go soon; dear Anna, pray God to comfort my mother!” Anna flew into the room: “Madame, O madame! is this true that Madeleine is telling me?” And she was sobbing. Picciola covered her with kisses, saying: “Why will no one listen when I speak of my happiness?” When Anna was more calm I sent her to her mother, and said to my darling: “Then let us talk about heaven together.” “But, aunt, it grieves you also. Yet I, although the pain of those I love goes to my heart—I feel in myself an indescribable gladness. Oh! if you knew how I thirst for heaven.” “And who tells you that you are going to leave us, dear child? Our Lady of Lourdes will cure you.” “If you love me, do not ask me this; I must not be cured,” she murmured, with a sort of prayerful expression. What do you think about this child, dear Kate?

Our thoughts are much taken up, as you may imagine, with the Council and with Ireland. Adrien has read to us from a goodly folio, come from the Thebaid of our _saint_, the most sinister predictions with reference to the present time.

Good-by for a little while; I slip this note into Margaret’s envelope.

AUGUST 1, 1869.

St. Francis of Sales used to say: “People ask for secrets that they may advance in perfection; for my own part, I know of only one: to love God above all things, and my neighbor as myself.” And Bossuet, that other great master of the spiritual life, said: “Give all to God, search to the very depths, empty your heart for God; he will know very well how to employ and to fill it.” This is what Gertrude has done, who just now quoted these two thoughts to console me. Alas! yes, I cannot resign myself to see her depart, this enchanting soul, so worthy of love. “Remember,” Gertrude said to me, “that God undertakes to give back everything to those who have given him all. I perceive many sacrifices for you, dear Georgina; be worthy of God’s favors, for suffering is one of these.” And she quitted me. She lives so near to God that every word she utters seems to me an oracle, and now I am afraid. O poor soul!—a reed bending to every wind.

“Turn thee to Him who comforts and who heals.” Help me, dear Kate! René, Margaret, and Marcella agree in diverting my attention, but the blow has been given! O my God! If a whole family might but enter heaven all at the same time! if there were no tears of departure! I communicated this morning, and promised our adorable Jesus in the Blessed Eucharist to sacrifice my heart to him.

Berthe, Raoul, and Picciola set out to-morrow for Lourdes; we have not ventured to dissuade the poor mother from this idea. I had a foolish longing to follow them, but I saw in this a first sacrifice, and offered it to obtain courage. If, however, Mary would be pleased to cure her! They will make a novena there, and not return until the 16th. What a long time without seeing her!

Our country neighbor has installed himself, and yesterday paid us his first visit. My mother gave him a more than amiable reception. We all thanked him for the care with which he had attended Anna, who threw her arms round his neck with the greatest simplicity. Marcella replied gracefully to the civilities of the good doctor, who accepted an invitation to dinner. My mother finds him very well bred. He is fifty years of age, very tall, with an open and expressive countenance, most extensive learning, skill, wit, fortune, and above all _faith_; he is thus in every way worthy of my friend. René has explained this to me, and has ended by requesting me to favor this marriage.

Margaret, on leaving me this evening, whispered in my ear: “Dear, will our fair Roman be insensible? The aspirant belongs _to the very first quality of nature’s noblemen_.”

Good-by, dear Kate; pray much!

AUGUST 6, 1869.

Picciola is at this moment at the miraculous Grotto. Impossible to turn my thoughts away from this child; I see her everywhere. Nevertheless, I cannot complain of any want of distractions; we are out continually. Three days ago M. de Verlhiac (the doctor) gave us a princely reception in his _divor_. What life! what gayety! Marcella is very pensive and seeks to be alone. Margaret raves about the doctor, and will have him at all our parties; Anna can no longer do without him, my mother likes his conversation, the gentlemen seize upon the slightest pretext for going to the _Blue Nest_—the name given by Margaret to the dismantled manor of M. de V. You see, dear Kate, all is for the best. Your advice is not, however, useless to me. Oh! how well you have realized what Marcella is to me. But I am not so selfish as to place my affection in the way of her happiness, and I shall know how to make the sacrifice. M. de V. requested an interview with me yesterday. I had remained alone with my mother, who feared to take so long a drive, and it was in her presence that I received our new neighbor. He appeared greatly embarrassed—he, who is so fearless! At last, after a great deal of circumlocution, he related how he had become acquainted with our dear Italians; how much he felt interested in the pretty invalid, whom he had attended with truly paternal solicitude; how the desire had arisen in his heart to become the father of this attractive young creature; and how we had unknowingly destroyed the fragile edifice of his dreams by carrying away from him Mme. de Clissey and her daughter. Their sojourn of last winter had convinced him that without this union he could not be happy. Marcella had answered his proposal by a refusal, which he does not know how to explain.

My mother looked at me, and M. de V. continued: “I know not, madame, whether I am mistaken, but I am persuaded that you have some influence on this determination which crushes my life. Madame de C. does not wish to separate from you.” I was much moved by this confidence, and so much the more because my mother, who had formerly been acquainted with the mother of the good doctor, had told me that morning that she looked forward to this union with pleasure. I promised to do _my duty_. This conversation lasted three hours. M. de V. is really a remarkable man, and I cannot understand Marcella’s singular behavior. Margaret advises me to speak to her about it; but I think it more prudent to wait. The pretty little Anna unconsciously enlightened me somewhat. This morning, in my room, she was caressing her mother and saying: “Why, then, are you so cold to this good doctor, who likes you so much and who is so like papa? If you knew how affectionately he kisses me!” Marcella blushed and spoke of something else.

Dear Kate, my heart is full; M. de V. has only one dream after that of marrying my friend, which is to settle at Naples. It would then be a permanent separation! “You are in your spring-time, my daughter,” my mother said to me; “beware of the autumn! The lightest breath then carries away by degrees our happiness and our hopes.”

God guard you, dearest!

AUGUST 9, 1869.

The doctor has become our habitual companion. He loves poetry, “this choice language, dear to youth and to those whose hearts have remained young”—another connecting link with Marcella. “But they are made for each other,” says Margaret. This southerner shivers at the most delicate breeze of the north. “Good friend, what will you do in winter?” exclaims Anna on seeing him hermetically enfolded in a mantle lined with fur when he arrives of an evening. “Dear, I shall do as the swallows do.” “Bah! you will not go to Athens.” “And why not, if you will go with me?” “Oh! I do not travel without my mother.”

This fragment of conversation shows you that M. de V. is always driving at the same point. Every one rivals the other in extolling the loyalty, the learning, the distinction of the doctor. He must be immensely rich, for he throws gold with open hands among our poor, builds up cottages, gives work to all. Gertrude says: “There is in this man an apostle and a Sister of Charity.” Marcella never utters a word about our dear neighbor, but appears to suffer when others speak of him. Yesterday Margaret wanted to get my mother to promise that we should spend the summer of 1870 in England. “Will you not come also, monsieur?” The handsome countenance of the doctor darkened, and he answered briefly: “Who can promise?” “Oh! _do_ promise, good friend,” exclaimed Anna; “you told me you wished not to leave me!” “Anna, will you water my verbenas?” tranquilly asked Marcella. The child bounded into the garden.

Berthe writes to me every day. The horizon is dark there; the poor mother perceives the full truth.

_A Dieu_, Kate; may he alone be all to us!

AUGUST 16, 1869.

René has written to you, dear sister; thus you know how my time has been occupied. Oh! what a beautiful procession. What singing! What decorations! A corner of Italy in Brittany, to believe the good doctor, who has valiantly paid with his person.

Picciola is here. I have just been to kiss her under her curtains. This pilgrimage has produced a double benefit: it gave the poor parents a few days of hope, and the Immaculate Virgin has caused them to understand all. “She belongs to God before she belongs to us.” Are not these truly Christian words the acceptance of the sacrifice? And Picciola: “How sweet it would have been to die there, dear aunt! But I am very happy to see you again.” O my God!

Margaret is expecting Lord William. Can you picture to yourself the aspect of our colony—our numbers, the noise and movement, the joyous voices calling and answering each other, the animation, the eagerness, of this human hive? Our Bretons say they wish we were here always.

Edith writes often. Lizzy is somewhat silent; the saintly Isa is too much detached from earth to think of us in any way except in her prayers. My letters to Betsy have produced an unexpected effect, thanks to your prayers; this good and charming friend assures me that going to holy Mass and visiting the poor help her marvellously, and that now the days appear too short.