From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

DESERT JOURNEYS.

On the fringe of the desert, under a thick group of palms, a small tent is pitched. Around it is a motley collection of bales and boxes, built into a sort of barricade. Outside this some Nubian boys are lounging or squatting. They are in holiday garb, so to speak, for their glossy skins have been freshly smeared with grease.

The travellers whom the tent shelters have come so far on a Nile boat, but as the river now describes a huge curve and abounds in rocks and rapids, they have decided to cut across the desert.

It is about noon. The sun stands almost vertically above the tent, in a cloudless deep blue sky, and his scorching rays are but slightly warded off by the loose open foliage of the date-palms. On the plain between the river and the desert the heat is oppressive, and the strata of air above the burning ground are heaving unsteadily, so that every picture is distorted and blurred.

A troop of horsemen, evidently hailing from the desert, appears on the horizon. They pay no heed to the village which lies further inland, but make straight for the tent. The horses are thin, but plainly of no ignoble breed; the riders are dark brown and poorly clad, with long loose burnooses more gray than white. Reaching the cluster of palms they dismount. One of them approaches the tent and enters with the dignity of a king. He is the chief of the camel-drivers (Sheikh el Djemali), to whom we, the travellers, had sent a messenger, asking him to provide us with the necessary guides, drivers, and camels.

“Peace be with you,” he says on entering, and lays his hand on his mouth, his forehead, and his heart.

“Peace be with thee, O Sheikh,” we answer, “the mercy of God and his blessing.”

“Great has been my desire to see you, ye strangers, and to learn your wishes,” he assures us, as he takes his seat on a cushion in the place of honour at our right hand.

“May God, the Almighty, reward thy goodness, O Sheikh, and bless thee,” we answer; and we order our servants to bring him coffee and a freshly lit pipe before serving ourselves.

With half-shut eyes he comforts his mortal body with the coffee and his immortal soul with the pipe; and thick clouds of smoke veil his expressive features. There is almost perfect stillness in the tent, which is pervaded with the fragrance of the exquisite Djebelit tobacco and a thin smoke by no means unpleasant. At last we think that we may venture to begin business without violating any of the rites of hospitality.

“Is it well with thee, O Sheikh?”

“The Giver of all Good be praised, it is well with your servant. And how is it with thee?”

“To the Lord of all be honour and glory, it is well with me. Great was our longing to see thee, O Sheikh.”

“May God in His compassion fulfil your desire and bless you. Are ye in your state of health well content?”

“Glory be to Allah and to His Prophet, on whom is His grace.”

“Amen, be it as thou hast said.”

Fresh pipes revive the immortal soul; renewed, almost interminable courtesies are interchanged; and at last the rigid conditions of etiquette have been fulfilled, and it is permissible to turn to business matters.

“O Sheikh, with the help of the All-merciful, I would travel through this stretch of desert.”

“May Allah give thee good speed.”

“Art thou in possession of camels both to run and to carry burdens?” we ask.

“I am. Is it well with thee, my brother?”

“The Almighty be praised, it is well. How many camels canst thou provide for me?”

Instead of an answer only countless clouds of smoke issue from the Sheikh’s mouth, and it is not until we repeat our question that he lays aside his pipe for some moments and says with dignity, “Sir, the number of the camels of Beni Said is known to Allah alone; no son of Adam has ever counted them.”

“Well, then, send me twenty-five beasts, and among them six trotters. And I have besides need of ten large water-bags.”

The Sheikh smokes afresh without giving answer.

“Wilt thou send the beasts we desire?” we repeat with emphasis.

“I shall do so to serve thee,” he answers, “but their owners require a high price.”

“How much?”

“At least four times the customary wages and hire will be necessary.”

“But Sheikh, Allah, the Most High, preserve thee: these are demands which no one will be willing to grant. Praise the Prophet!”

“God, the Preserver of all, be glorified and His messengers blessed! Thou art in error, my friend: the merchant who has his camp over there has offered me double what I ask; only my friendship for thee has allowed me to make so small a demand.”

In vain seems all haggling, all further business. Fresh pipes are brought and are smoked; renewed courtesies are exchanged; the names of Allah and His Prophet are freely misused on both sides; most precise inquiries after health and comfort are made mutually; until at length the studied courtesy of the native begins to waver and the traveller from the North loses patience.

“Then know, Sheikh, that I am in possession of a letter authorizing a demand for means of convoy from the Khedive and likewise one from the Sheikh Soliman; here are both of them, what dost thou demand now?”

“But, sir, if thou holdest a safe-conduct from his high majesty, why dost thou not demand the head of thy slave? It is at thy service, on his orders. I take thy wishes on my eyes and on my head. Command and thy servant obeys. Thou knowest the government prices. Allah protect thee; in the morning I shall send thee men, beasts, and water-skins.”

If any one imagines that all the preparations for the desert journey were thus brought to a satisfactory conclusion, he is indeed totally ignorant of the manners and customs of the people. In the morning none of the promised drivers or beasts had put in their appearance; only by afternoon did they begin to come in; not even on the following morning, but at soonest about the time of afternoon prayer, could one think of starting. “Bukra inshallah—to-morrow, if God will”—is their motto, and it baffles all commands. Indeed, there is much to do, much to arrange, and much to be planned before the journey can be undertaken.

In course of time the tent is the centre of a gay and lively picture. The sunburnt children of the desert bustle about among the baggage. Their activity is unbusiness-like to a degree, but they seem to try to make up for this by incredible noisiness. The baggage, which had been arranged in a sort of barricade, is scattered about; individual pieces are lifted and tested as regards both weight and bulk; one package is compared with another, selected and then rejected, strapped together and then pulled apart again. Each driver tries to outwit his neighbour, each endeavouring to secure the lightest load for his own beast; each one rushes about in opposition to the rest, and all are shouting and roaring, screaming and scolding, swearing and cursing, entreating and execrating. In anticipation of what is coming the camels also add to the noise right lustily, and if, instead of roaring, and growling and grumbling, they should keep silence for a while, that only means: Our time has not yet come, but it is coming! Anyhow, with or without the camels’ accompaniment, the stranger’s ear is harassed, literally tortured, by all the medley of sounds which fall upon it at once. For hours together the bustle, the racket, the uproar continues; the men scold and quarrel over the loads until they have had enough or more than enough; and at last the prelude comes to an end.

After peace is concluded they begin to twist the bast fibres of the date-palm into cords and ropes. With these they sling the bales and boxes cleverly together; they make hooks and eyes so that the two bundles may be fastened quickly to the saddle and as quickly loosened; they mend the ready-made nets which they have brought to hold the smaller packages; and they test the large and small skin bags, patching them where need be, and finally smearing them with ill-smelling varnish of colocynth. Lastly, they examine the sun-dried flesh, fill several bast bags with Kaffir-millet or dhurra, others with wood-charcoal, and some perhaps with camels’ dung, rinse out the skin-bags and fill them with water fresh from the stream. As the tedious business is brought to a close one hears each utter a hearty “Thank God”—“El hamdu lillahi”.

To look after all these preparations is the duty of the Chabir or leader of the caravan. According to its importance is his rank, but in all cases he must be what his title signifies—one who knows the way and the existing conditions. Experience, honesty, cleverness, mettle, and bravery are the requirements of his difficult, and not rarely dangerous office. He knows the desert as a mariner the sea, he can read the stars, he is familiar with every oasis and every spring on the course of the journey, he is welcome to the tent of every Bedouin or nomad chief, he understands all sort of precautions against break-down or peril by the way, he can cure snake-bite and scorpion-sting, or at least alleviate the sufferings of the injured, he wields the weapons of the warrior and of the huntsman with equal skill, he has the word of the Prophet not only on his lips but in his heart, he utters the “Fatiha” at starting, and discharges the obligations of Mueddin and Iman at the appointed times; in a word, he is the head of the many-membered body which travels through the desert. In the solitudes where nothing seems to point the way which other caravans have taken, where the wind obliterates every track almost as soon as the last camel has passed, he finds signs unseen by others which guide him aright. When the dry, ill-boding dust of the desert hides the everlasting heavens, his genius is his guiding star; he tests the drifting sand, measures its waves, and estimates their direction; he reads the points of the compass on a stem of grass. On him every caravan, every traveller depends without mistrust. Ancient and in part most remarkable laws, inscribed in no charter, yet known to all, make him responsible for the welfare of the journey and for the life of each traveller, except in so far as any inevitable dispensation of the Ordainer of destiny may decree otherwise.

Fig. 49.—Caravan in the African Desert.

At the sacred hour, the time of afternoon prayer, the leader announces to travellers and drivers that all is ready for the start. The brown men rush around, catching, leading, saddling, and loading the camels. Resisting to the utmost the beasts are forced to obey; they seem to have a vivid foreboding of a stretch of toilsome days. Their time has now come. Roaring, screaming, snarling, and grumbling, in obedience to the inimitable guttural commands of their masters and sundry gentle hints from the whips, they sink down on their bended knees; bellowing they adjust themselves to receive the unwelcome burden on their humped backs, and still bellowing they rise with their load. Not a few kick and bite in their efforts to resist being loaded, and it indeed requires all the inexhaustible patience of the drivers to subdue the obstinate creatures. But patience and tact master even camels. As soon as the rebellious beast has consented to kneel, one of the drivers stands up on its bent fore-legs, and with a quick grip seizes the upper part of the muzzle so that by pressing the nose he can stop the camel’s breathing; meanwhile two others from opposite sides lift the equally poised burden on to the saddle; a fourth runs fastening pegs through the loops of the ropes; and the fractious camel is loaded before he has quite regained his senses. As soon as all are loaded, the march begins.

It is now the turn of the well-saddled trotting camels. Each traveller fastens his weapons and indispensable personal luggage to the high, trough-shaped saddle fixed over the hump. He then proceeds to mount his steed. For the novice this is usually a critical business. With a bold spring he must leap into the saddle, and, as soon as he touches this, the camel bolts up. He rises backwards, first on his fore-knees, immediately afterwards on his long hind-legs, and finally on his fore-legs. To the second jerk the novice in camel-riding usually falls a victim, he is hurled out of the saddle and either kisses mother earth or falls on the beast’s neck and holds on tightly. The camel is much too ill-humoured to treat this as a joke or an accident. An angry cry bursts from its ugly lips; it flies into a passion with the poor traveller, hanging in a most unenviable position on its neck, and proceeds to shake itself free both of him and his baggage. It takes some time before the traveller from the North learns to bend his body forwards and backwards at the right moment so as to keep his seat as the camel springs up.

For our own part, we swing ourselves into the saddle with the agility of natives. Urging on our steed with a few strokes of the whip, and keeping it in due check by means of a fine nose-rein, we hasten after the leader. Our camel, a lank, loosely-built, long-legged creature, falls at once into that uniform, persistent, long-stepping, and most effective trot, to which it is trained from earliest youth, and which raises it high above all beasts of burden, and closely follows the leaders. The small head is stretched far in front; the long legs swing quickly backwards and forwards; behind them sand and small stones rise into the air. The burnooses of the riders flutter in the wind; weapons and utensils clatter together; with loud calls we spur on the beasts; the joy of travel seems to give our spirits wings. Soon we overtake the caravan of baggage-camels which had preceded us; soon every trace of human settlement disappears; and on all sides there stretches in apparent infinitude—the desert.

Sharply defined all around, this immense and unique region covers the greater part of North Africa, from the Red Sea to the Atlantic, from the Mediterranean to the Soudan, including whole countries in its range, embracing tracts of fertile land; presenting a thousand varieties, and yet always and everywhere the same in its essential features. In area, this wonderful region is nine or ten times larger than the whole of the German Empire, and three or four times larger than the Mediterranean. No mortal has thoroughly explored or even traversed it; but every son of earth who has set foot on it and crossed some part of it, is in his inmost heart impressed with its size and grandeur, its charm and its horror. Even on the most matter-of-fact Northerner who sojourns in the desert a lasting, ineffaceable impression is left by the glowing splendour of the sunlight and the parching heat of its days, by the heavenly peacefulness and the magical phantoms of its nights, by the witchery of the radiant atmosphere, by the dreadfulness of its mountain-moving storms; and many a one may have experienced, what the children of the desert so acutely feel—a longing to return, to breathe its air for a day, an hour, to see its pictures again with the bodily eye, to experience again that “unutterable harmony” whose echoes the desert awakens in the poetic soul. In short, there is a home-sickness for the desert.

It is literally and truly “El Bahhr bela maa”—the sea without water—the sea’s antithesis. To the sea the desert is not subject as are other parts of the earth; the might of the vitalizing and sustaining element is here annulled. “Water silently embraces all things”—the desert alone excepted. Over the whole earth the winds bear the clouds, the sea’s messengers, but these fade away before the glow of the desert. It is rarely that one sees there even a thin, hardly perceptible vapour; rarely can one detect on a leaf in the morning the damp breath of the night. The flush of dawn and the red glow of sunset are indeed seen, but only, as it were, in a breath which is scarce formed when it passes away. Wherever water gains the mastery, the desert changes into fertile land, which may, indeed, be poor enough, but the limits between them are always sharply defined. Where the last wave of the sacred Nile, raised above its level by man’s ingenuity, loses itself in the sand, the contrast is seen; the traveller, whose way lies from the river to the hills adjacent, may stand with one foot on a field of sprouting grain, and with the other touch the desert. It is not the sand itself which hinders the growth of plants, but solely the scorching heat which radiates through it. For, wherever it is irrigated or periodically watered, there, amid the otherwise plantless desert, a green carpet of vegetation is spread, and even shrubs and trees may grow.

Fig. 50.—An Encampment in the Sahara.

Barren, pitifully barren is the desert, but it is not dead—not, at least, to those who have eyes to see its life. Whoever looks with a dull eye sees nothing but sandy plains and rocky cones, bare low grounds and naked hills, may even overlook the sparse reed-like grasses and shrubby trees of the deeper hollows, and the few animals which occur here and there. But he who really wishes to see can discover infinitely more. To the dull-eyed the desert is a land of horrors; they allow themselves to be so depressed by the glowing heat of the day that the blissfulness of the night brings them no comfort or strength; they ride into the desert trembling, and leave it shuddering; their sensations are all for the terrible, their feelings for the annoyances attendant on the journey; for the infinite sublimity of the desert such hearts are too small. But those who have really learned to know the desert judge otherwise.

Barren the desert is, we confess, but it is not dead. Thus, although the general aspect is uniform, the nature of the surface varies greatly. For wide stretches the desert is like a rocky sea, with strangely-shaped cones, abrupt precipitous walls, deeply-riven gorges, sharp-angled ridges, and wondrous towering domes. Over these the ceaselessly-blowing wind drifts the sand, now filling up hollows, now emptying them again, but always grinding, polishing, hollowing out, sharpening, and pointing. Black masses of sandstone, granite, or syenite, more rarely of limestone or slate, and here and there of volcanic rock glow in the sun, and rise in expressively-outlined ranges. On one side the wind robs these of every covering, driving the fine sand uninterruptedly over their summits, completely enveloping them in a veil in times of storm, and leaving no particle of sand at rest until it has been blown across the ridge. On the lee side, protected from the wind, lie golden yellow beds of the finest rolled sand, which form terraces one above another, each about a yard in height. But they also are in ceaseless movement, continually displacing one another from above downwards, and being renewed from the other side of the range. Strikingly contrasted with the black walls of the exposed side, these terraces of sand are visible from afar, and in certain lights they sparkle like broad golden ribbons on the hills. We may venture to call such ranges the regalia of the desert. No one unacquainted with the glowing South can picture the marvellous wealth of colour, the splendour and glamour, and the infinite charm which the overflowing sunlight can create on the dreariest and wildest mountains of the desert. Their sides are never clothed with the welcome green of woodland, at most the highest peaks bear a scant covering of bushes, to which the precipitation of vapour at this height allows a bare subsistence and a stunted growth. One misses the whispering of the beeches, and the rustling of the firs and pines; there is none of the familiar murmuring, or joyous chatter, or echoing roar of running water, which lays silver ribbons on our mountains at home, fringing them here with verdure, while in another place the sun shining upon rushing waterfall and whirlpool enhaloes them with rainbow colours; there is no mantle of ice and snow which the sun can transfigure into purple at dawn and sunset, or into glowing brightness at noon; and there is no fresh green from any mead. In short, all the witchery and charm of Northern mountain scenery is absent; and yet the desert mountains are not deficient in wealth of colour, and certainly not in majesty. Every individual layer and its own peculiar colour comes into prominence and has its effect. And yet, brilliant as may be the brightly-coloured and sometimes sharply-contrasted strata, it is on the continuously sand-polished, grandly-sculptured cones, peaks, gullies, and gorges that the light of heaven produces the finest play of colour. The alternations of light and shade are so frequent, the flushing and fading of colours so continuous, that a very intoxication of delight besets the soul. Nor do the first and last rays of the sun fail to clothe the desert mountains in purple; and distance sheds over them its blue ethereal haze. They, too, live, for the light gives them life.

In other regions the desert is for wide stretches either flat or gently undulating. For miles it is covered with fine-grained, golden-yellow sand, into which man and beast sink for several centimetres. Here one often sees not a single stem of grass nor living creature of any kind. The uniformly blue sky roofs in this golden surface, and contributes not a little to suggest the sea. In such places the track of the “ship of the desert” is lost as it is made; they are pathless as the sea; for them as for the ocean was the compass discovered. Less monotonous, but not more pleasant, are those regions on which loose, earthy, or dusty sand forms a soil for poisonous colocynth-gourds and the wholesome senna. Long low hills alternate with shallow and narrow hollows, and a carpet of the above-named plants, which from a distance seems green and fresh, covers both alike. Such places are avoided by both man and beast, for the camel and his driver often sink a foot deep into the loose surface-soil. Other tracts are covered with coarse gravel or flints, and others with hollow sand-filled balls, rich in iron, which look almost as if they had been made by human hands, and whose origin has not yet been very satisfactorily explained.[75] On such stretches, where the camel-paths are almost like definite highways, thousands of quartz crystals are sometimes exposed, either singly or in groups, like clusters of diamonds set by an artist hand. With these the sun plays magically, and such stretches gleam and sparkle till the dazzled eye is forced to turn away from them. In the deepest hollows, finally, the dust forms a soil, and there one is sure to find the reed-like, but very hard, dry, sharp, dark-green alfa, umbrella-shaped mimosas, and perhaps even tom-palms, pleasant assurances of life.

But of animal life also there is distinct evidence. To think of the desert as a dead solitude is as erroneous as to call it the home of lions. It is too poor to support lions, but it is rich enough for thousands of other animals. And all these are in a high degree remarkable, for in every respect they prove themselves the true children of the desert.

It is not merely that their colouring is always most precisely congruent with the dominant colour of the ground, that is generally tawny, but the desert animals are marked by their light and delicate build, by their strikingly large and unusually acute eyes and ears, and by a behaviour which is as unassuming as it is self-possessed. It is the lot of all creatures born in the desert to be restless wanderers, for sufficient food cannot be found all the year round at one place, and the children of the desert are endowed with incomparable agility, indefatigable endurance, untiring persistence; their senses are sharpened so that the pittance which is offered is never overlooked, and their clothing is adapted to conceal them alike in flight or in attack. If their life is perhaps somewhat hard, it is certainly not joyless.

The fact that almost all the desert animals agree in colouring with their surroundings explains why the traveller, who is not an experienced observer, often sees, at first at least, but little of the animal life. Moreover, the desert seems far poorer than it is, since it is not till dusk that most of its tenants leave their places of rest and concealment and begin to be lively. Some, however, force themselves on the attention of the least observant. Even though the traveller may fail to notice the various species of desert-lark which cross his path everywhere, and are noteworthy for their likeness to the ground and for their extraordinarily developed powers of flight, he cannot possibly overlook the sand-grouse; and though he may ride unobserving over the burrows of the jerboas, he is sure to observe a gazelle feeding not far from his path.

Fig. 51.—Gazelles lying near a Mimosa.

This antelope may be regarded as typically a desert animal. Although it is proportionate in all its parts, the head and sense-organs seem almost too large, and the limbs too delicate, in fact almost fragile. But this head carries a brain of unusual cleverness for a ruminant, and those limbs are as if made of steel, exceedingly strong and elastic, admirably suited for agility and untiring endurance. One must not judge the gazelle of the desert from its appearance in captivity, cooped up in a narrow space. What activity, adroitness, suppleness, grace, and spirit, it displays in its native haunts! How well it deserves to have been chosen alike by the Oriental and by the native of the desert as the image of feminine beauty. Trusting to its tawny coat, as well as to its incomparable agility and speed, it gazes with clear, untroubled eyes at the camels and their riders. Without seeming to be disturbed by the approaching caravan, it continues to browse. From the blossoming mimosa it takes a bud or a juicy shoot; between the sharp alfa leaves it finds a delicate young stem. Nearer and nearer comes the caravan. The creature raises its head, listens, sniffs the air, gazes round again, moves a few steps, and browses as before. But suddenly the elastic hoofs strike the ground, and the gazelle is off, quickly, lightly, and nimbly, as if its almost unexcelled speed were but play. Over the sandy plain it skims, quick as thought, leaping over the larger stones and tamarisk bushes as if it had wings. It seems almost to have left the earth, so surprisingly beautiful is its flight; it seems as if a poem of the desert were embodied in it, so fascinating is its beauty and swiftness. A few minutes of persistent flight carry it out of reach of any danger with which the travellers can threaten it, for the best trotter would pursue in vain, and not even a greyhound could overtake it. Soon it slackens its speed, and in a few moments it is browsing as before. And if the bloodthirsty traveller begins the chase in earnest, the sly creature has a tantalizing way of allowing him to get near it again; a second and a third time it cleverly gets out of range of his murderous weapons, until at length, becoming scared, it leaves all danger far behind. The further it gallops the more slender seem its body and limbs; its outline begins to swim before the eyes; at length it disappears on the sandy flat, merging into it and seeming to melt away like a breath of vapour. Its home has received and concealed the fugitive, removed it, as if magically, from vision, and left not a trace behind. But if the vision is lost to the eye it remains in the heart, and even the Western can now understand why the gazelle has become such a richly-flowering bud in the poesy of the East, why the Oriental gives it so high a rank among beasts, why he compares the eyes which kindle fires in his heart to those of the gazelle, why he likens the neck around which he throws his arms in love’s secret hour to that of the swiftest of the desert’s children, why the nomad brings a tame gazelle to the tent of his gladly-expectant spouse, that she may gaze into its tender eyes and reflect their beauty on the hoped-for pledge of their wedlock, and why even the sacred poet finds in the fair creature a visible emblem of his longing after the Most High. For even he, removed from the world, must have felt a breath of the passion which has purified the words and made smooth the verses and rhymes of the fiery songs in praise of the gazelle.

Less attractive, but by no means less interesting, are some other desert animals. Among the sparsely sprouting alfa there is a numerous flock of birds about the size of pigeons. Tripping hither and thither, scratching and scraping with their bills, they seek for food. Without anxiety they allow the rider to approach within a distance of a hundred paces. A good field-glass enables one to see not only every movement, but also the more prominent colours of their plumage. With depressed head, retracted neck, and body held almost horizontally, they run about in search of seeds, the few grains which the desert grasses bear, freshly unfolded panicles, and insects. Some stretch out their necks from time to time and peer circumspectly around, others, quite careless, paddle in the sand, preening their feathers, or lie at ease, half sideways, in the sun. All this one can distinctly see, and one can count that there are over fifty, perhaps nearly a hundred. What sportsman would their presence not excite? Sure of his booty, the inexperienced traveller shuts up his field-glass, gets hold of his gun, and slowly approaches the gay company. But the birds disappear before his eyes. None has run or flown, yet none is to be seen. It seems as if the earth had swallowed them. The fact is that, trusting to the likeness between their plumage and the ground, they have simply squatted. In a moment they have become stones and little heaps of sand. Ignorant of this, the sportsman rides in upon them, and is startled when they rise with simultaneous suddenness, and loudly calling and scolding, take wing and fly noisily away. But if he should succeed in bringing one down, he will not fail to be struck by their colouring and marking, which is as remarkable as their behaviour. The sand-coloured upper surface, shading sometimes into gray, sometimes towards bright yellow, is broken and adorned by broad bands, narrower bars, delicate lines, by dots, spots, points, streaks, and blurs, so that one might fancy at first sight that birds so marked must be conspicuous from a distance. But all this colour-medley is simply the most precise copy of the ground; every dark and light spot, every little stone, every grain of sand seems to have its counterpart on the plumage. It is no wonder then that the earth can, as it were, make the bird part of itself, and secure its safety, which is further assured by the creature’s strong wings, which are capable of incomparably swift flight. And so it is that the poetic feeling of the Arabs has idealized these sand-grouse in luxuriant fancy and flowery words, for their beauty fascinates the eye, and their marvellous swiftness awakens longing in the heart of mortals who are bound to the earth.

All other desert animals display characters like the two which we have described. Thus there is a lynx, the caracal, leaner and lanker, with longer ears and larger eyes than the rest of his race, moreover not striped nor spotted, but sand-coloured all except his black ear-tips, eye-stripes, and lip-spots. His hue varies slightly, being lighter or darker, and with more or less red, according to the locality in which he lives. There is also a desert fox, the fenec, the dwarf of the dog family, with dun-yellow fur, and extraordinarily large ears. The desert also harbours a small rodent, the so-called jumping-mouse, the jerboa: he suggests a miniature kangaroo, and has exceedingly long hind-legs, diminutive fore-legs, and a tail longer than the body with hairs in two rows. He is more harmless and good-natured, but also swifter and more agile than any other rodent.

The birds, the reptiles, and even the insects show the same stamp, though form and colouring may vary greatly. When any other colour besides sandy-yellow becomes prominent, if hair, feather, or scale be marked with black or white, ashy-gray or brown, red or blue, such decorations occur only in places where they are not noticeable when looked at from above or from the side. But where a mountain rises in the midst of the desert, it shows its varied character also in the animal life. On the gray rocks of the mountains in Arabia the steinbok clambers, the hyrax has its home, the bearded vultures nest, and not a few other birds are to be found on the peaks and cliffs, in the chasms and valleys. But from the dark rocks of more low-lying deserts the only sound one hears is the loud but tuneful song of the deep-black wheatear.

Thus the desert exhibits harmony in all its parts and in every one of its creatures, and this fact goes far to strengthen the impression made on every thoughtful, sensitive, and healthy mind—an impression received on the first day in the desert, and confirmed on every succeeding one.

If one would really know the desert and become in any measure at home there, one must have a vigorous constitution, a receptive mind, and some poetic feeling. Whoever shrinks from enduring the discomforts of the journey, whoever fears either sun or sand, should avoid the desert altogether. Even if the sky be clear, and the atmosphere pure and bright, even if a cooling breeze come from the north, the day in the desert is hard to bear. Almost suddenly, with scarce any dawn, the sun begins to exert his masterful power. It is only near the sea or large rivers that the dawn is heralded by a purple flush on the eastern horizon; amid the vast sand-plains the sun appears with the first reddening in the east. It rises over the flats like a ball of fire, which seems as if it would burst forth on all sides. The coolness of the morning is at once past. Directly after sunrise the glowing beams beat down as if it were already noon. And though the north wind, which may blow for months at a time and is often refreshing, may prevent the unequally expanded layers of air from shaping themselves into a mirage, yet it does not bring sufficient cooling to annul the peculiar heaving and quivering of the atmosphere which is seen over the sand. Heaven and earth seem to float in a flood of light, and an indescribable heat streams from the sun, and is reflected again from the sand. With each hour the light and heat increase, and from neither is there any escape.

The caravan starts at daybreak and proceeds without a sound. The baggage-camels step out briskly and their drivers keep pace with elastic steps; the riding-camels hasten at full trot, urged according to their strength, and soon leave the burden-bearers far behind. With unslackened speed they hurry on. All one’s bones seem to crack with the jerks and jolting caused by the rapid pace of the riding-camels. The sun beats down, piercing through all the garments with which one tries to protect oneself. Under the thicker clothing perspiration pours all over the body, on the more lightly clad arms and legs it evaporates as it is formed. The tongue cleaves to the roof of the mouth. Water, water, water! is the one idea left to those unaccustomed to these discomforts. But the water, instead of being in iron vessels or flasks, is in the characteristic skin-bags of the country; it has been carried for days in the full sun on the camel’s back, it is more than lukewarm, of evil odour, thick, brown in colour, and tastes so vilely of leather and colocynth varnish that it produces nausea or even vomiting. But it seems as impossible to improve it as to do without it. Its penetrating taste and smell baffle all attempts to enjoy it in coffee or tea, or mixed with wine or brandy. Undiluted wine or brandy simply increase the burning thirst and oppressive heat. The traveller’s condition becomes one of torture before the sun reaches the zenith, and his distress is the greater the worse the water. But it has to be and is endured. And although the Northerner can never conquer his repugnance to the kind of water which we have described, he grows used to the heat, at first so unbearable, and, as he begins to be at home with his steed, other discomforts are also lessened. In the future he will make sure of water which is at least clean, and will soon cease to complain of its warmth or of any other inevitable inconveniences of his journey.

Resting comfortably, though rudely wakened by the loud grumbling of the baggage-camels, the experienced travellers allow the caravan to go on ahead while they comfort body and soul with coffee and tobacco. Thereafter they mount the dromedaries and speed along as quickly as these trotters will go. Not a word is exchanged, the only sounds are the crunching of the sand under the elastic hoofs, the loud breathing, and hollow, deep grunting of the camels. In a short time the baggage-train is overtaken, and we shoot on ahead. A gazelle browses near our course and raises hopes of welcome booty. With spirited movements the graceful creature—image of the desert poet’s fancy—skips and dances before its pursuers; the gasping, sharply-spurred camels rush on with gigantic strides. The gazelle seems careless and allows near approach; the riders act as if they would pass it, they rein in their beasts and ride more moderately. But one slips from the saddle to the ground, stops his beast for a moment, and from under cover of its body fires a deadly shot. In a trice the leader has sprung from his saddle to make sure of the fallen game; triumphantly he drags it along, fastens it dexterously to his saddle, and on goes our cavalcade.

Towards noon a halt is called. If there is a hollow near, it will probably contain an umbrella-like mimosa, whose thin foliage will afford some slight shade; but if the sandy plain stretches unbroken on all sides, all that can be done is to fix four lances in the sand and stretch a blanket over them. Though the sand on which one must lie is glowing, and the air one breathes is oppressive, languor and weariness overpower even the natives, how much more the Northerner. One seeks rest, but it comes not, and refreshment, but one cannot enjoy it. Blinded by the overflowing light and the tremulous atmosphere, we shut our eyes; but, tormented by scorching heat, and tortured by feverish thirst, we toss about sleepless. The hours go by on leaden feet.

The baggage-train winds slowly past and disappears in a vapourous sea on whose heaving waves the camels seem to float. Still one lingers, and continues to suffer the same agonies. The sun has long since passed the zenith, but his glowing beams are as fierce as ever. It is not till late in the afternoon that a fresh start is made. And again there is a rapid ride, whose swiftness seems almost to create a cooling breeze of air. The baggage-camels come in sight again, and are soon overtaken. The drivers stride behind them, singing; one leads the song, and the rest join in at the end of each verse in regular refrain.

When one knows the toilsome labour of the camel-driver in the desert, one wonders indeed to hear him singing. Before daybreak he loaded his camel, after he had shared with it a few handfuls of soft-boiled dhurra grains—the sole food of both; all through the long day he strides behind his beast, without a bite to eat, with at most an occasional mouthful of ill-smelling water; the sun scorches his head, the glowing sand burns his feet, the hot air parches his sweating body; for him there is no time to pause or rest; he may perhaps have had to change the loads of some of the beasts, or to catch one or other which had bolted; and yet he sings! It is the approach of night which inspires him.

When the sun goes to rest, the limbs of these wizened children of the desert seem to become supple again; in this, as in all else, they are like their mother. Like her they are parched at noon, like her they revive at night. As the sun declines, their poetic gifts weave golden dreams even in waking hours. The singer praises the well-springs rich in water, the groups of palms around them, and the dark tents in the shade; he greets a brown maiden in one of the tents, who hails him with welcome; he extols her beauty, likens her eyes to those of the gazelle, and her mouth to a rose, whose fragrance is as her words, and these as pearls in his ear; for her sake he rejects the sultan’s eldest daughter, and longs for the hours when fate shall permit him to share her tent. But his comrades admonish him to seek after higher joys, and raise his thoughts to the Prophet, “who satisfies all longing”.

Such is the song which falls on the Northerner’s ears, and the songs of home rise to his lips, and when the last rosy flush of the setting sun fades away, when night stretches her robe of witchery over the desert, then it seems to him as if the hardest had been easy, as though he had suffered no thirst in the heat, nor discomfort by the way. Cheerfully he leaps from the saddle, and while the drivers unload and tether the camels, he heaps and smooths the sand for his bed, spreads his carpet and coverlet, and gives himself over with delight to the rest he had longed for.

The small camp-fire illumines the plain only for a few paces. Around it the dark, half-naked sons of the desert move about busily; the flame casts a weird light on them, and in the half-darkness they look like shadows. The bales and boxes, saddles and utensils assume strange shapes; and the camels, lying in a wide circle outside the baggage, become ghostly figures when their eyes gleam with the reflection of the firelight. It becomes quieter and quieter in the camp. One driver after another leaves the camels, with whom he has shared his frugal supper, wraps himself in his long body-cloth, sinks to the ground, and becomes one with the sand. The fire flares up for the last time, loses its glow, and goes out. It is night in the camp.

He who would describe a night in the desert should be, by the grace of God, a poet. For how can its beauty be described, even by one who has watched, revelled, and dreamed through it all? After the heat of the day it comes as the gentle, compensating, reconciling bestower of unspeakable comfort and inspiration, bringing peace and joy, for which a man longs as for his beloved who atones to him for his long waiting. “Leïla”, the starry night of the desert, Leïla is with justice the Arab’s image of all that is fair and joyous. Leïla he calls his daughter; with the words, “my starry night”, he embraces his beloved; “Leïla, O Leïla!” is the musical refrain of his songs. And what a night it is, which here in the desert, after all the burden and discomfort of the day, soothes every sense and feeling! In undreamt-of purity and brightness the stars shine forth from the dark dome of heaven: the light of the nearest is strong enough to cast slight shadows on the pale ground. With full chest one breathes the pure, fresh, cooling, and invigorating air; with delight one gazes from star to star, and as their light seems to come nearer and nearer, the soul breaks through the fetters which bind it to the dust and holds converse with other worlds. Not a sound, not a rustle, not even the chirping of a grasshopper interrupts the current of thought and feeling. The majesty, the sublimity of the desert is now for the first time appreciated; its unutterable peace steals into the traveller’s heart. But what proud self-consciousness also fills his breast: here, in the midst of the infinite solitude, so alone, apart from all human society and help, reliant on himself only, his confidence, courage, and hope are strengthened. Dream-pictures full of infinite charm pass before his wakeful eyes, and merge in ever fresh and fascinating combinations, and as the stars begin to twinkle and tremble, his thoughts become dreams, and his eyes close in sleep.

After the refreshment which the desert night brings both to body and soul, the discomforts of the next day seem lighter, however much effort it may require to drink the water, which becomes more vile every hour. Perfect rest, unclouded comfort is only to be had at one of the desert wells. Always menaced by dearth of the most essential necessaries of life, every desert journey is a ceaseless anxiety, a restless hastening on; it is therefore entirely devoid of that ease and comfort with which one would prefer to travel. One day passes like another; each night, in favourable seasons at least, is like that which I have described. But in the oasis, the day becomes a holiday, the evening is a joyous festival, and the night brings perfect rest.

The essential condition for the formation of an oasis is a basin-like or valley-like depression. Without a gushing spring, without at least an artificial well, rich vegetation is impossible, and water is found in the desert only on the lofty mountains or in the deepest hollows. As the sea of sand is in so many respects the counterpart of the ocean, so its oases are counterparts of islands, but they do not rise above the surface, they are sunk beneath it. The water may either rise in a visible spring, or it may be found at a slight depth below the surface. Its abundance and its quality determine the character of the oasis. In the minority the water is pure and cool, but in most cases it is salt, ferruginous, or sulphurous, and on that account probably very healthful. But it is by no means always drinkable or conducive to fertility. Perhaps there is hardly one oasis which produces fresh, green sward. And it is only in very favourable places that the water is evident at all; in most cases it collects drop by drop in clefts of the rock or in shafts which have been dug for it; at times at least it has to be artificially forced. Even where the water wells up copiously it would soon lose itself in the sand, if it were not carefully collected and distributed. At the same time it always evokes a refreshing life, doubly welcome amid such sterility.

Around the spring, long before men appeared to take possession, a company of green plants had effected settlement. Who can tell how they got there? Perhaps the sand-storm sowed the seeds, which first germinated by the well, and grew into plants, with leaves, flowers, and another generation of seeds which were scattered through whole valleys. It is certain, at least, that they were not planted by men, for the mimosas which form the greater part of the little colony occur also in springless hollows, where one sees them sometimes singly, sometimes forming a small thicket of ten or twenty. They alone are able to keep life awake in the desert; they put forth green leaves, they blossom and send forth fragrance—how fresh and balmy! In their pleasant shade the gazelle rests; from their tops resound the songs of the few feathered songsters of the desert. The sappy leaves, seen amid the stiff masses of limestone, the cones of black granite, and the dazzling sand, do the eyes good like a meadow in May; their flowers as well as their shade refresh the soul.

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.

Fig. 52.—An Oasis in the Desert of Sahara.

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.

Fig. 53.—Band of Mounted Bedouins.

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.

Fig. 54.—An Egyptian Sakieh or Water-wheel.

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”.

The modern Egyptians are of mixed blood, being descended from the ancient Egyptians and the immigrant Arabic hordes from Yemen and Hedjaz, who amalgamated with the earlier inhabitants of the lower Nile valley. The Nubians are descendants of the “wild Blemyes”, with whom the Pharaohs of the ancient, middle, and more recent dynasties, as well as the Egyptian governors of the Ptolemies, contended ceaselessly, and by no means always successfully. The former use the language in which the “Revelations” of Mohammed are recorded, the latter use an old Ethiopian speech now split up into several dialects; the former employ an ancient mode of writing, the latter never have had any which has taken organic root in their own language. The former still preserve the seriousness at once characteristic of the old Egyptians, and of the sons of the desert from whom they sprang. Like all Orientals they give themselves, throughout their whole life, deep anxiety about the world to come, and order their customs and habits according to their fantastic notions of it. The Nubians, on the other hand, have preserved the cheerful joyousness of the Ethiopians, living like children for the present, taking what is pleasant without thanks and what is painful with loud complainings, and under the influence of the moment readily forgetting both. The yoke of foreign masters rests heavily on both alike; the Egyptian bears it with groaning and grumbling, the Nubian with equanimity and without resistance; the former is a sullen slave, the latter a willing servant. Every Egyptian fancies himself high above the Nubian, regards himself as nobler in race, speech, and customs; boasts of his culture, though that is restricted to but a few of the people, and seeks to oppress the dark-skinned race as completely as he himself is oppressed. The Nubian recognizes the general physical superiority of the Egyptian, and thoroughly acknowledges the intellectual culture of the prominent members of the neighbour-people, but he seems to be scarcely conscious of his own deficiency in culture, and is even inclined, in his turn, to enslave the less strong or less gifted people of the interior. Yet even with the purchased negro he is on a brotherly footing, and seems to have patiently submitted to his burdensome fate, after having tried in vain to contend successfully against a superior force. In every fibre of his being he is still a child of nature, while the Egyptian seems the sad type of a decayed and still decadent people. The Nubian, in the most barren country in the world, still retains a measure of freedom; the Egyptian, on the richest of soils, has become a slave, who is not likely ever to venture to shake off his chains, though he still talks vaingloriously of the greatness of his past.

In point of fact, the Nubian has as much right, if not more, to glory in the exploits of his ancestors and to fortify his soul in recounting their prowess. For these ancestors fought bravely not only with the Pharaohs and the Romans, but also with the Turks and the Arabs—the governing and subject races of modern Egypt[79]—nor would they have been overcome had they not been without fire-arms. At the time of my first visit to the Nile, eye-witnesses of some of the last battles were still alive, and from their lips I learned enough to enable me to do justice, in one respect at least, to a manly, much misjudged people. The events to which I refer took place in the beginning of the third decade of this century.

After Mohammed-Aali, the energetic but unscrupulous and even cruel founder of the family now ruling in Egypt, had, in March 1811, treacherously fallen upon and massacred the chiefs of the Mamelukes whom he had invited to meet him, his mastery of the Lower Nile seemed assured. But the proud warriors, whose leaders had been done to death by shameful stratagem and unworthy breach of faith, were not completely subjugated. Brooding revenge, the Mamelukes chose new leaders and betook themselves to Nubia, there to collect their forces, to renew the combat with their artful foe, or at least to threaten him. Mohammed-Aali recognized the danger, and delayed not to meet it. His army followed the still-scattered troops of the Mamelukes. The latter, too weak to venture open battle, were forced to take to the river-forts, where, fighting desperately and defiant of death, they fell to a man. The Nubians were conquered at the same time, and, submitting to their fate, were condemned to servitude. Only the brave race of the warlike Sheikier resisted. In 1820 they met the Turkish-Egyptian army near the village of Korti—an heroic but undisciplined people, accustomed to win victory with lance, sword, and shield, against well-drilled soldiers equipped with fire-arms. According to ancient custom the women were present at the battle to stimulate the combatants with their shrill battle-cry, to raise the children aloft in their arms, that the fathers, seeing them, might be fired to deeds defiant of death.

The Nubians fought in a manner worthy of their sires; bravely they pressed forward against the artillery, which wrought fell destruction in their ranks. Mightily they smote with their long swords at the supposed monsters, leaving the deep impress of their sharp blades on the brazen barrels of the cannons; but the Egyptians conquered. Not bravery, but superiority of weapons won the day. Amid screams of woe from the women, the brown warriors took to flight. But the former, possessed by a wild despair, preferring glorious death to shameful servitude, pressed their children to their breasts and threw themselves in hundreds into the river, which the blood of their husbands had reddened. The deserts on both sides of the stream prevented the fugitives from reaching any refuge, and finally there was nothing left to them but to surrender and to bend their hitherto unbowed necks under the yoke of the conqueror.

Only once again did the old heroic spirit burst into clear flames. One of the chiefs, who is already celebrated in the saga of Melik el Nimmr, or “the panther-king”, collected his people at Shendy in South Nubia, for the lash of the cruel conqueror had become unbearable. Suspicious of his intentions, Ismael Pasha, son of the Egyptian governor and commander of the forces, set out against him, and making use of all available boats, appeared at Shendy before Melik Nimmr had by any means completed his preparations. Impossible demands were made in order to compel Melik Nimmr to absolute subjection. He, recognizing the impending ruin, braced himself for action. While he feigned submission, his messengers hastened from hut to hut stirring into flames the sparks of insurrection which glimmered everywhere beneath the ashes. By crafty representations he induced Ismael Pasha to leave the security of his ship. He lured him to the roomy though straw-thatched royal dwelling, surrounded by a thick hedge of thorns and by immense heaps of straw which, according to the panther-king’s assurance, were intended to supply the camel-fodder which the Pasha demanded.

A splendid feast, such as Ismael has never seen, will Melik Nimmr give to his lord and master. He begs leave to invite all the officers of the Egyptian army, and receives the Pasha’s permission. Captains, officers, and staff are gathered to the feast in the king’s humble palace. Outside the fence of thorns sounds the tarabuka, the drum of the country which calls to the dance, as also to the battle. The young folk, festively anointed, engage in a merry war-dance. Hurled lances whirr through the air, and are deftly caught on the small shields of the company of dancers ranged opposite. Long swords are whirled dexterously, and as skilfully warded off. Ismael is mightily delighted with the handsome, dusky youths, the graceful movements of their supple limbs, the boldness of their attack, the security of their defence. Thicker and thicker becomes the whirling throng in front of the banquet-hall, more and more sword-dancers appear, more violent and riotous become their movements, and more rapidly beat the drums. Then suddenly the tarabuka changes its tone; it is echoed a hundred-fold in all quarters of Shendy, and not less in the neighbouring villages on this side and on that side of the river. A great cry of rage in the highest notes of women’s voices fills the air; and women naked to the loins, with dust and ashes on their oil-soaked hair, bearing firebrands in their hands, rush upon the king’s hall, hurling their brands on the walls and on the surrounding heaps of straw. A monstrous sheaf of fire shoots up to heaven, and amid the flames, resounding with cries of horror and woe, of execration and rage, the death-dealing lances of the dancers fly in thousands. Neither Ismael Pasha nor any of his feasting comrades escape a horrible death.

It was as if champions of the down-trodden people had risen from the ground. Whoever could bear weapons turned against the cruel enemy; women, forgetful of their sex, joined the ranks of the combatants; girls and boys strove with the strength and endurance of men towards the common end. Shendy and Metamme were in one night freed of all their foes. Only a few of the Egyptians, quartered in the distant villages, escaped the bath of blood, and brought the gruesome news to the second commander, then stationed in Kordofan.

He, Mohammed-Bei el Defterdar, still spoken of by the Nubians as “el Djelad” or the devil, hastened with all his forces to Shendy, defeated the Nubians for the second time, and glutted his revenge by the slaughter of more than half the population of the unhappy country. The “panther-king” succeeded in escaping to Abyssinia; but his subjects had to bow under the foreign yoke, and their children “grew up”, to use the expression of my informant, “in the blood of their fathers”. Since these misfortunes the Nubians have remained submissive thralls of their oppressors.

The Nubians, or, as they call themselves, the Barabra, are a people of medium height, slim, and well-proportioned, with relatively small, well-formed hands and feet, with generally pleasant features, characterized by almond-shaped eyes, a high, straight or curved nose, slightly broadened only at the lobes, a small mouth, fleshy lips, an arched forehead, and a long chin. Their hair is fine, slightly curled but not woolly; the colour of their skin varies from bronze to dark-brown. They have a good carriage, their walk is light and elastic, and their other movements nimble and graceful. Thus they contrast very favourably with the negroes of the Upper Nile valley, and even with the Fungis of Eastern Soudan. The men shave the hair of the head either altogether, or all but a tuft at the top, and wear a tightly-fitting white cap, the takhie, over which on holidays a white cloth may be twisted like a turban. The clothing consists of a shawl, six to nine yards in length, wound around the upper part of the body, short breeches and sandals, and an additional blue or white robe-like garment on holidays. A dagger is carried on the left arm, and, when journeying, they also carry a lance. Leather rolls, which are said to contain amulets, and a little pocket, hung round the neck with cords, are the only ornaments worn by the men. The women arrange their hair in hundreds of small thin plaits, which they soak with mutton fat, butter, or castor-oil, thus diffusing an odour which to our nostrils seems almost unendurable; they tattoo various parts of their face and body with indigo; their lips are often dyed blue, and their palms always red. They adorn their necks with beads of glass, amber, and cornelian, amulet-pockets, and the like, their ankles with bangles of tinware, ivory, or horn, their ears, nostrils, and fingers with rings of silver. An apron reaching to the ankle is worn round the loins instead of trousers, and the shawl is wound in picturesque folds around breast and shoulders. The boys go naked until their sixth or eighth year; the girls wear from their fourth year an exceedingly becoming tassel-apron, made of fine strips of leather, and often decorated with glass-beads or shells.

Fig. 55.—A Nubian Village on the Nile.

All the Nubians settled in the valley of the river live in four-cornered huts, more or less cubical in form. The walls are sometimes built of sun-dried bricks, and then they slope slightly inwards as they ascend, or the house may consist of a light wooden framework covered with straw. Usually there is but one room with a low door, and often the windows are represented only by air-holes: in fact the whole arrangements are of the simplest. The furnishings consist of a raised couch—the aukareb—with a cover of interwoven strips of leather or bast; simple chests; well-finished, even water-tight baskets; leather-bags; vessels for holding water, dhurra beer, and palm wine; hand-mills or stones for grinding the grain; iron or earthen plates, slightly hollowed on the surface, for baking bread; hollow gourds, a hatchet, a gimlet, several mattocks, and the like. Mats, curtains, screens, and coverlets are accessories; bowls, flat woven dishes and their lids are luxuries which not every house possesses. The food consists chiefly, sometimes almost exclusively, of vegetable produce, milk, butter, and eggs. The grain, which is more frequently rubbed than ground, is worked into dough, and baked into a doughy bread. This may be eaten alone without any relish, or along with milk, or with thick mucilaginous soups made of various plants. To the latter may be added numerous pungent spices and some shreds of flesh, which has been dried in strips in the sun. The Nubian is more keen for drink than for food, and of every intoxicating liquor, whether of native or foreign origin, he always shows an eager, not to say excessive, appreciation.

The habits and customs of the inhabitants of the middle Nile valley display a remarkable amalgamation of inherited and acquired characters. Taciturn and carelessly pliant, the Nubian seems as willing to adapt himself to what is new as to forget the traditions of his home. Worshipper of Islam more in name than in reality, he is as innocent of strict adherence to the tenets of his creed as of intolerance towards those of another faith. Until he has reached mature manhood or old age, he seldom or never respects the commandments of the Prophet with the conscientiousness of Arab or Turk. He circumcises his boys, gives his daughters in marriage, treats his wives, buries his dead, and celebrates the feasts according to the laws of Islam; but he thinks that he has done quite enough if he observes the external regulations of his cult. Song and dance, amusing conversation, jokes, and a drinking revel, please him better than the precepts and commandments of the Koran; he has no mind to engage in monastic exercises of faith and penitence, nor even in the fasts which other Mohammedans hold so sacred.

At the same time, no one can call the Nubian weak-willed, fickle, servile, untrustworthy, treacherous, or, in short, bad. In lower Nubia, where he constantly meets with hundreds of travellers, rich in his eyes, and free-handed, he of course frequently becomes a shameless, indeed an unendurable beggar; and the strangers whom he importunes, because his poor land will not support him, do not tend to ennoble him. On the whole, however, he may fairly be called an honest fellow. One misses, it is true, the strength of will characteristic of his fathers, but spirit and courage are by no means lacking. He is gentler and more good-natured than the Egyptian, and not less trustworthy and enduring when he has to face difficult or dangerous tasks. In his poor, unproductive country his whole being is rooted. Of it he thinks with pathetic constancy when in a strange land; he labours, pinches, and saves with the one desire to pass his manhood and old age at home; and this desire, which compels him to a ceaseless struggle for existence, gives strength to both body and soul. The raging stream, with which he contends not less persistently than with the rocky land, arouses and preserves his courage and self-reliance, just as it develops his calm confidence in face of danger. Thanks to the qualities thus acquired, the Nubian is a trusty servant, a reliable companion, a restless djellabi or merchant, and, above all, an adventurous, fearless boatman.

It almost seems as if the parents disciplined their sons from their earliest years in all the services which they may have to discharge when grown up. As in Egypt, so in Nubia the children of the poor are hardly educated at all; they are at most urged to work, or rather are utilized according to the measure of their strength. However small the boy, he must do his work and fulfil his allotted task; however tender the girl, she must help her mother in the many duties which are laid upon the women of the land. But whereas in Egypt they scarcely allow the children any recreation, in Nubia merry games are as far as possible encouraged. In Egypt the boy becomes a thrall and the girl his slave, without ever knowing the joys of childhood; in Nubia even those who are more than half grown-up are often still children alike in their disposition and in their ways. Thus the Egyptian youths seem to us as unnaturally serious as their fathers, while the Nubians are as joyous as their mothers.

Fig. 56.—Nubian Children at Play.

Every traveller becomes familiar with a favourite game, which he cannot watch without delight, for it displays agility and grace of movement in combination with endurance and the spirit of adventure. It is the universal game of “Hare and Hounds” or “Follow my leader”. After their work is done the boys and girls unite in play. The boys leave the water-wheel around which they have driven the oxen from early morning till dusk, or the field in which they have worked with their father, or the young camel which they have been teaching to trot. The girls leave the younger brothers and sisters whom they have dragged rather than carried about all day, or the dough whose leavening they had to superintend, or the grinding-mill over which they have exerted their young strength. All hasten to the bank of the river. The boys are naked; the girls wear only their tasselled aprons. Laughing and chattering they go; like black ants they swarm on the golden yellow sand, running over and between the dark rocks. Those who are to chase stand picturesquely grouped, until the fugitive gets the requisite start. He gives the sign for the chase to begin, and they are all at his heels. Like a gazelle he speeds over the sandy plain to the nearest rocks, and like hounds in full cry his comrades give chase; like a chamois he climbs aloft upon the rocks, and not less nimbly do his pursuers follow; like a startled beaver he plunges into the stream to hide himself by diving, to escape by swimming, but there too they follow excitedly, both boys and girls, kicking like swimming dogs, halloing and screaming, chattering, laughing, chuckling, like a flock of gabbling ducks. For long the result remains undecided, and it not unfrequently happens that the bold fugitive swims right across the broad river before he falls into the hands of his pursuers. The parents of the merry company look on from the banks, and rejoice in the agility, courage, and endurance which their children display, and even the European is compelled to admit that he never saw creatures more joyous or more vigorous than those slim, dusky, sleek-skinned Nubian children.

From boys who play thus boldly come the men who dare to ply the boatman’s craft among the rapids, to steer their boat down the river hurrying through the valley, with rushing, swirling, boiling, raging waves, and even to sail upwards against these. On many of their journeyings they do not even use a boat, but trust to frail floats of dhurra-stems, or swim with the help of inflated, air-tight skin-bags. These Nubian boatmen and swimmers have looked danger in the face so firmly, and so often, that the waves have never whispered either myth or saga in their ears. They know of no nixies or water-sprites, of no genii, good or bad, and the protecting powers whose help they ask before or during dangerous journeys have but the solemn might of fate, none of the spite of fickle spirits. Thus the saga is dumb in the rapids, in “the Belly of the Rocks”, in the plunging, whirling “Mother of Stones”, in the “Shatterer”, the “Camel’s Neck”, the “Coral”, or whatever the rapid may be called; the saga is dumb, though the whole region seems the fittest home of legends, and the boatman has too often reason to be tempted to believe in spirits who wish ill to human kind.

The rapids are navigated down-stream at high and middle water, up-stream at middle and low water. When the Nile is lowest any boat going down-stream would be shattered; when the flood comes not even the largest sail would impel a vessel of considerable size against the current. At low water hundreds of men are requisitioned to haul one of the all-powerful government’s medium-sized barks up-stream; at the time of flood, they would scarcely be able to find footing on the few unflooded rock-islands on either side of the navigable channel. Full flood is the best time for going down-stream, and middle-water is best for going up, since at this time the regular north winds have set in and render practicable the use of sails.

All the craft specially intended for the rapids are distinguished from other Nile boats by their small size and by peculiarities of build and of rigging. The hull has but few timbers, and the boards are held together by nails driven in obliquely. The sail is not triangular, but four-sided, and fastened to two yards in such a way that from the lower more or less canvas can be unfurled, or spread to the wind. The build and rigging are thoroughly adapted to the conditions. The smallness, especially the shortness of the boat, is adapted to the necessity for sharp turnings; the manner in which the boards are joined gives the hull an elastic flexibility and pliancy which are valuable when the vessel runs aground; the adaptability of the canvas to the strength of the wind and of the current makes it possible to maintain a fairly successful contest against a most variable resistance. Nevertheless no one would willingly go up or down stream alone; the boatmen wisely prefer to go in companies, so that they may aid one another whenever occasion demands.

A fleet of boats plying up-stream presents a beautiful, inspiring picture as it sails away from a landing-place, or from some quiet creek, in which it has rested by night. All the navigable portions of the river show white sails, of which one can see twenty or more gliding among the dark rocks; at first all the craft are about the same distance apart, but soon the variable currents and breezes break their order. One and then another lags farther and farther behind, one and then another shoots ahead of the main body of the fleet, and in the course of an hour there is a wide interval between the first boat and the last. Yet, even with a strong and constant wind, the progress of the voyage is much less than it seems. The waves, indeed, break impetuously on the bow, but the boat has to contend with so strong an opposing current that its forward movement is really slow. It is an art to steer under such conditions, so that the boat may sail as straight as possible, consistent with avoiding the rocks hidden beneath the surface. For every tack means a change in the position of the unwieldy sail, and every time the boat touches a rock a leak is caused. Captain and crew have thus constant employment. Yet their work only begins in earnest when they near one of the countless rapids which have to be overcome. The sail, hitherto but partially unfurled, is now given fully to the wind; the bark pushes its way like a strong steamship through the chaos of rocks and reaches the whirlpool which is found beneath almost all rapids. All the men stand with oars outstretched and ropes in readiness, awaiting the inevitable moment when the boat will be gripped by the whirlpool and drawn into its vortex. At the skipper’s bidding the oars on one side dip into the water, on the other side long poles are thrust out to keep the boat off the rocks, while the sail, skilfully handled by the most experienced sailors, is taken in or let out, turned and twisted, as the circumstances demand. Once, twice, six times, ten times, they try in vain to cut through the whirlpool; at last they succeed and the boat reaches the lower end of the water-rush. But here it stops as if spell-bound; the pressure of the current equals that on the sails. The wind rises, and the vessel moves on a few yards; the pressure on the sail slackens again, and the waves drive it back to its former place. The contest with the whirling waves recommences, and again the boat is worsted. At last it reaches the desired goal, and must hold to it. One of the crew grips a rope in his teeth, plunges into the midst of the wild surge, and dragging the heavy rope behind him seeks to gain a rock which rises above the raging waves some little distance ahead. The waves hurl him back, cover and overwhelm him, but he continues his efforts, until it becomes plain that he must yield to the superior force of the stream. He gives up the struggle and is pulled by the rope back to the boat. Again the whirling waves, so strong to destroy, play with the frail structure which ventures to oppose them; and at last the wind gives the victory to the boat. But suddenly a portentous crash is heard; the steersman loses his footing and is projected into the stream; the boat has struck on one of the hidden rocks. With the utmost speed one of the crew gets hold of the rudder, a second throws a rope and a bladder to the struggling steersman, and without a moment’s delay the rest jump into the hold, and with hammer, chisel, and tow seek to repair the leak which they are sure to find. The man at the rudder endeavours to save the vessel from further mischance; the drenched steersman clambers up with an “El hamdi lillahi!” or “Thank God!” more grumbling than grateful; the rest hammer and plug the gaping leak, one even surrendering his shirt to eke out the scanty tow. Once more the boat sails through whirl and wave, rocking, creaking, groaning like a storm-tossed ship; once more it reaches the rapids; once more it is arrested between wind and current. Two sailors spring overboard at once, and, fighting against the stream with all their strength, at last succeed in gaining the rock. They surround it with one end of the rope and signal to the others to pull the boat up. This done, the vessel is moored to the rock, and there it hangs in the midst of the wild rush of waters, rocking so violently and continuously that it causes nausea. A second boat draws near and asks for assistance. A rope is floated down on a bladder, and thus time and trouble are saved. Soon the second also reaches the rock, a third follows, and a fourth, and all dance up and down together in the tumult. And now the united strength of the crews is sufficient to effect a successful passage. One of the boats is manned with double the normal crew; the other boatmen swim, and wade, and climb, dragging the rope to another rock further ahead, and, with all the help that the sail can give, one boat after another is pulled through the rushing waters of the rapid. Now and then at certain places the sail alone is sufficient to carry the boat up, but in such cases a lull of the wind not unfrequently endangers both craft and crew. Often, too, boats are forced to linger in the midst of the tumult for hours or even days, waiting for a favourable wind. Then one may see a tiny bark hanging behind every jagged rock, all alike unable to help their neighbours.

Several times I have been forced to make my bed on one of the black rocks amid-stream, for the violent rocking of the boat in the rapids made sleep an impossibility. A stranger sleeping-place can scarcely be imagined. The ground on which one lies seems to tremble before the assaults of the flood; the roaring and bellowing, hissing and splashing, rumbling and thundering of the waves drowns every other sound; one sits or lies on a rug with his comrades without uttering a word. Every blast of wind drives the spray like a fleeting mist across the rock island. The glowing camp-fire throws a weird light on the rock, and on the dark water foaming around its ragged edges; the falls and whirlpools in the shade seem even more gruesome than they are. At times one cannot help fancying that they open a hundred jaws to engulf the poor child of man. But his confidence is firm as the rock on which he rests. The mighty stream may thunder as it will, the seething waves may rage and foam, he is safe on a rock which has defied the flood for ages. But what if the rope break, and the boat be hurled and shattered on the nearest rocks? Then another will come to take the shipwrecked crew ashore! In spite of these and similar thoughts, and in spite of the ceaseless roar, the traveller can sleep, and sleep tranquilly too. For danger lends courage, and courage brings confidence, and the thunder of the waves becomes at length a lullaby to the wearied ear. And on the ensuing morning what an awakening! In the east the sky is suffused with red, the ancient giant-rocks wear a purple cloak on their shoulders, and shine in gleaming light, as if they were clad in burnished steel. Sunshine and shadow flit over the dark reefs and through the gullies filled with golden-yellow sand, and over all is thrown the marvellous, indescribably beautiful, colour-garment of the desert. Thousands and thousands of water-pearls shine and sparkle, and the mighty river rolls out its mighty melody, which is ever the same and yet eternally new. Such a glory, such a harmony, fills the heart with contentment and rapture. The morning is spent in devotional contemplation of this glorious spectacle, for it is not till forenoon that the wind begins to blow from the north and fill the sails. Work and danger, toil and struggle, hazard and anxiety, begin anew; and thus one day follows another, and rapid after rapid is at length overcome.

The voyage up-stream is dangerous and tedious; the voyage down-stream has no parallel in perilousness, such a mad rush is it through flood and rapid, whirlpool and eddy, cataract and gorge,—an exciting game in which life is the stake.

Voyages down-stream through the region of the rapids are only undertaken by the special boats which are made for the purpose in the Soudan. About ten per cent are smashed on the voyage, and that the percentage of deaths is not equally high is simply due to the matchless swimming powers of the Nubian boatmen. Even when they are dashed by the waves against a rock they do not always drown; usually they are like ducks in the water, and reach the shore in safety.

Let me try to give a faithful picture of one of these down-stream voyages.

Six new boats, built of the much-prized heavy mimosa-wood which sinks in water, are moored to the shore at the southern limit of the third group of rapids. The men who compose their crews are lying on sandy places between the black rocks, where they have spent the night. It is still early morning and the camp is quiet; only the river roars and murmurs in the solitude. As day dawns the sleepers awake; one after another descends to the stream, and performs the ablutions ordained to accompany morning prayer. After the prescribed prayer has been uttered from “preface” to “conclusion”, they refresh themselves with a frugal breakfast. Then old and young betake themselves to the tomb of a sheikh or saint, whose white dome gleams among the light-green mimosas, there to offer a special petition for a fortunate voyage. In this they are led by the eldest Reis, or steersman, who represents the Imam. Returning to the river, they observe an ancient heathen custom of throwing some dates, as an offering, into the waves.

At length each skipper orders his men to their posts. “Let go the sail! Row, men, row—row in the name of God, the All-Merciful,” he shouts. Thereupon he strikes up a song, with an ever-recurring refrain; one of the rowers takes it up and sings verse after verse; and all the rest accompany him with the rhythmically repeated words: “Help us, help us, O Mohammed, help us, God’s messenger and prophet!”

Slowly the bark gains the middle of the stream; quicker and ever quicker it glides onwards; in a few minutes it is rushing, more swiftly than ever, among the rocky islands above the rapid. “O Said, give us good cheer,” says the Reis, while the sailors go on singing as before. More and more quickly the oars dip into the turbid flood; the men, who were freshly anointed yesterday, are naked to the loins, and the sweat pours down their bodies as they strain every muscle. Praise and blame, flattery and reproaches, promises and threats, blessings and curses, fall from the skipper’s mouth according as the boat fulfils or disappoints his wishes. The strokes of the oars, pulled at full strength, follow each other more quickly still, though their purpose is solely to direct the otherwise exceedingly rapid course of the boat, and, as they often increase the danger they seek to avoid, the Reis may be excused if he exhausts all the hortatory vocabulary at his command in his desire to stimulate his crew. “Bend to your oars; work, work, my sons: show your strength, ye children and grandchildren of heroes; display your prowess, ye brave; exert your strength, ye giants; do honour to the prophet, all ye faithful! Oh, for the merieza! Oh, for the scented damsels of Dongola! Oh, for the delights of Cairo; all shall be yours. Larboard, I say, ye dogs, ye children of dogs, ye grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and litter of dogs, ye Christians, ye heathen, ye Jews, ye Kaffres, ye fire-worshippers. Ah! ye rascals, ye swindlers, ye thieves, ye villains, ye vagabonds, do you call this rowing? First oar, starboard! are there women hanging about you? Third oar, larboard! throw overboard the weaklings who are misleading you. That’s right, well done; bravo, ye strong, supple, clever youths; God bless you, brave fellows, and give your fathers joy and your children His blessing. Better, better, better yet, ye cowards, ye strengthless, ye sapless, ye miserable, ye pitiable—Allah damn you all in His righteous wrath, ye—ye—Help us, help us, O Mohammed.” Such is the torrent which rushes uninterruptedly from the skipper’s lips, and all his commands and cries, entreaties and execrations, are uttered with the utmost seriousness, and enforced with appropriate gestures of hand, and foot, and head.

Fig. 57.—A Passage through the Nile Rapids.

The boat sweeps into the first part of the rapid. The rocks on both sides seem to whirl round; the surge floods the deck, and its thunder drowns every order. Unresisting the frail craft is borne towards a neck of rock—fear, anxiety, dismay may be read on every face, but there—the dreaded spot is already behind the stern, the foaming backwash has saved the imperilled boat, only a couple of oars have been shivered like thin glass. Their loss hinders the right management of the bark, and it sweeps on without answering to the rudder, on to a formidable waterfall. A general cry, expressing horror and despair; a sign from the Reis standing in the bow with trembling knees, and all throw themselves flat on the deck, and hold on like grim death; a deafening crash and an overwhelming rush of hissing, gurgling waves; for the space of a moment nothing but water, and then the boat gives a leap upward; they have passed the cataract and escaped the jaws of death. “El hamdi lillahi!” (God be thanked) rings out from every breast; some hurry to the hold to find the leak and plug it, others lay out new oars, and on they go.

Behind the first boat comes a second, hurrying through the dangerous rapid. The oarsmen are labouring with extraordinary, ever-accelerating velocity; then, suddenly, all are thrown prostrate, all but one, who describes a high curve through the air into the river. He seems lost, buried in the raging depth; but no, while his comrades wring their hands in dismay, the matchless swimmer appears on the surface in the middle of the foaming whirlpool beneath the rapid. As a third boat shoots past the second, which has stuck on a rock, and reaches the whirlpool, the swimmer catches one of the oars, swings himself cleverly on board, and is saved. A fourth boat also hurries past; the beseeching gestures from the crew of the second boat implore for help; but a hand raised to heaven is the only answer. In truth, no human help could be given, for no craft is here under man’s control; the stream itself must help, if it will not destroy,—and it does help. The boat oscillates violently on the rock; its prow and stern dip deep in the water; but suddenly there is a whirl, and once more it is borne on through the surging current. Some of the crew row, others bale out the water, as do two women journeying with them, others hammer, and plug, and caulk in the attempt to repair the damage done. Half-full of water, scarce keeping afloat at all, the boat reaches the shore and is emptied of her cargo. But half of this, consisting of gum-arabic, is spoilt, and the owner, a poor merchant, tears his beard, moaning, lamenting, weeping, and cursing the two women passengers. The two women are to blame for all. How could they, who brought ruin to the first man in paradise, bring any blessing to faithful Mussulmans? Woe, woe upon the women and all their kind!

Next day the bark is repaired, new caulked, and reloaded; it speeds on with the rest to the next rapids, passes through these without further mischance, and reaches the fertile valley of middle Nubia, which is free from rocks and gives a hospitable welcome to every voyager. The cares, lately so grievous, are as soon forgotten; like children, the brown men laugh and joke, and drink with content great draughts of palm wine and merieza. Much too quickly for their taste does the stream bear the boat through this happy land.

Again the desert spreads its golden-yellow sand over the rocky banks; again rocky islands narrow, divide, and impede the river; the barks are entering the second group of rapids. One after another the dangerous currents, the dreaded whirlpools, the perilous straits and corners, are safely passed and left behind; only the last and wildest of the rapids lie between the boats and the palmy Wady Halfa. And below that village all is smooth sailing except at one place below Philæ, where the river is once more broken up by rocks. Above these last rapids—Gaskol, Moedyana, Abu-sir, and Hambol—which are truly dreadful, the boats seek for a quiet bay; and here all encamp to gain strength for the work and warfare, cares and trials of the coming day. The northerners also enjoy the prospect of a quiet night’s rest.

Night draws its veil over the desert land. The rushing waves thunder in the rocky valley; the stars are reflected in the peaceful creek; the blossoming mimosas make the shore fragrant. An old gray-haired Reis, born and bred among the rapids, approaches the strangers from the north. A snow-white beard ennobles his impressive features; his flowing cloak suggests a priest’s robe. “Sons of strangers,” he says, “men from the land of the Franks, difficult things have ye overcome along with us, but there is harder still before you. I am a child of this land, seventy years has the sun shone upon me, and at last he has whitened my hair: I am an old man, and ye might be my children. Therefore take ye heed to my warning, and draw back from what ye propose—to accompany us on the morrow. Witless ye go to the danger, but I know it. Had ye seen, as I have seen, those rocks which bar the way of the waves; did ye know, as I know, how these waves storm and rage for entrance and passage, how they overwhelm the rocks, and hurl themselves roaring into the depths below, ye would see that only the grace of God, whom we praise and glorify, can guide our poor boat aright, ye would yield to me. Would not the heart of your mother break should the All-merciful refuse us His compassion? Ye will not stay? Then may the grace of the Father of mercies be with us all.”

Before sunrise the shore becomes a scene of activity. Devoutly as before the boatmen offer the prayer of the dawn. Serious, experienced steersmen, who know the river well, and young, strong-limbed, adventurous oarsmen, offer their services to the ancient. Carefully he chooses the most skilful steersmen and the strongest oarsmen; he sets three men to the rudder; and then he gives orders to start. “Men and sons of the land, children of the river, pray the Fatiha,” he orders. And all repeat the words of the first Sura of the Koran. “Praise and honour to the Lord of the world, the All-merciful, He who ruleth at the day of judgment. Thee would we serve, to Thee would we pray, that Thou wouldest guide us in the way that is right, in the way of those who enjoy Thy favour, and not in the way of those with whom Thou art displeased.” “Amen, my children, in the name of the All-merciful! Let go the sail, and bend to the oars.” With rhythmic stroke these dip into the water.

Slowly the pent-up stream bears the boat towards the first rapid. Again, as it nears the rocks, the boat refuses to obey either rudder or oars, but creaking and groaning in every joint, it rushes through the overwhelming waves and boiling foam, through eddy and whirlpool, through narrow channels and abruptly-winding courses, drenched and flooded with water, shaving rocky corners by an arm’s-length, almost touching the teeth of hidden reefs. On it rushes to the second rapid.

From the height of the cataract the eye looks down with dismay at the dreadful violence of the torrent, and one sees at the lower end of the rapid a round block of rock surrounded by foaming waves as if it were the head of a white-haired giant rising above the surface. Like an arrow to its mark our fragile ungovernable boat rushes towards this giant’s head. “In the name of the All-merciful, row, row, ye men, ye strong, brave, noble men, ye children of the stream!” cries the steersman. “Larboard, larboard the rudder with all your strength!” But the boat answers neither to oars nor to rudder. It is not indeed the giant block which endangers the craft, but a narrow channel to the starboard into which we are swept and in which we are hurried on towards a labyrinth of rocks through which no possible pathway can be seen. The men already leave their oars, and throw off any clothes they have on, so that they may be unhampered in swimming. A fearful crash turns all eyes backward: the giant’s head has caught the next boat, which was longer and less pliant, and holds it oscillating over the seething flood. This increases the dismay. All our men regard the crew of the second boat as doomed, and as for themselves they prepare to plunge into the torrent. Then the voice of the ancient pilot rings out sharp and clear: “Are ye mad, are ye God-forsaken, ye children of heathen? Work, work, ye boys, ye men, ye heroes, ye giants, ye faithful! In the hand of the Almighty rests all power and strength; give Him the glory, and bend to your oars, ye sons of heroes!” And he himself takes the rudder, and in a few minutes directs the misguided boat from the “way of sinners” into the “right way”. One boat after another appears in the open water: but not all. The giant’s head still bears his victim, and will most likely bear it until next year’s flood. The ill-fated boat with the women on board was shivered to pieces at the uppermost of this group of rapids. With the crews, happily saved, the skipper prays, as he did before departure, “Glory and honour to the Lord of the World.”

Before the village of Wady Halfa, overshadowed with palms, the boats are moored; the men have gone ashore, and lie in picturesque groups around the camp-fire. Big-bellied flagons, filled with merieza, invite the thirsty; in other vessels the flesh of new-killed sheep is boiling under the care of women and girls who have quickly gathered round. Reeking of castor-oil, they are by no means welcome visitors to Europeans. The notes of the zither and the beating of the drum announce the beginning of the “fantasia”, the feast and the revel. Unutterable comfort takes possession of the boatman’s heart, joyous contentment is expressed in every look and gesture. At length, however, the inevitable fatigue after the heavy anxious work of the day asserts itself. The tarabuka sinks from the wearied arm, the tambura falls from sleepy fingers, and all the voices, which but a few moments ago were so loud, become silent.

Then the voices of the night are heard. The thunder of the rapids resounds down the valley, there is whispering among the crowns of the palm-trees with which the night-wind plays, and on the flat shore the waves splash in rhythmic cadence. The thundering waves and the rippling water, the rushing wind and the whispering palms unite their music in an exquisite lullaby, which leads all the sleepers to the happy land of golden dreams.