A thousand miles up the Nile

by Amelia B. Edwards

We entertained our guests with coffee and lemonade, and, as well as we could, with conversation. The bey, who spoke only Turkish and Arabic, gave a flourishing account of the sugar works, and dispatched his pipe-bearer for a bundle of fresh canes and some specimens of raw and candied sugars. He said he had an English foreman and several English workmen, and that for the English as a nation he had the highest admiration and regard; but that the Arabs “had no heads.” To our inquiries about the ruins, his replies were sufficiently discouraging. Of the large temple every vestige had long since disappeared; while of the smaller one only a few columns and part of the walls were yet standing. They lay out beyond the town and a long way from the river. There was very little to see. It was all “sagheer” (small); “mooshtaïb” (bad); not worth the trouble of the walk. As for “anteekahs,” they were rarely found here, and when found were of slight value.

A scarab which he wore in a ring was then passed round and admired. It fell to our little lady’s turn to examine it last and restore it to the owner. But the owner, with a bow and a deprecating gesture, would have none of it. The ring was a toy—a nothing—the lady’s—his no longer. She was obliged to accept it, however unwillingly. To decline would have been to offend. But it was the way in which the thing was done that made the charm of this little incident. The grace, the readiness, the courtesy, the lofty indifference of it, were alike admirable. Macready in his best days could have done it with as princely an air; but even he would probably have missed something of the oriental reticence of the Bey of Erment.

He then invited us to go over the sugar factory (which we declined on account of the lateness of the hour), and presently took his leave. About ten minutes after came a whole posse of presents—three large bouquets of roses for the sittàt (ladies), two scarabei, a small funereal statuette in the rare green porcelain, and a live turkey. We in return sent a complicated English knife with all sorts of blades, and some pots of English jam.

The wind rose next morning with the sun, and by breakfast time we had left Erment far behind. All that day the good breeze served us well. The river was alive with cargo-boats. The Philæ put on her best speed. The little Bagstones kept up gallantly. And the Fostât, a large iron dahabeeyah full of English gentlemen, kept us close company all the afternoon. We were all alike bound for Esneh, which is a large trading town and lies twenty-six miles south of Erment.

Now, at Esneh the men were to bake again. Great, therefore, was Reïs Hassan’s anxiety to get in first, secure the oven and buy the flour before dusk. The reïs of the Fostât and he of the Bagstones were equally anxious, and for the same reasons. Our men, meanwhile, were wild with excitement, watching every maneuver of the other boats; hanging on to the shoghool like a swarm of bees; and obeying the word of command with unwonted alacrity. As we neared the goal the race grew hotter. The honor of the boats was at stake, and the bread question was for the moment forgotten. Finally all three dahabeeyahs ran in abreast and moored side by side in front of a row of little open cafés, just outside the town.

Esneh (of which the old Egyptian civil name was Sni, and the Roman name Latopolis) stands high upon the mounds of the ancient city. It is a large place—as large, apparently, as Minieh, and, like Minieh, it is the capital of a province. Here dragomans lay in provision of limes, charcoal, flour and live stock for the Nubian journey; and crews bake for the last time before their return to Egypt. For in Nubia food is scarce and prices are high, and there are no public ovens.

It was about five o’clock on a market day when we reached Esneh and the market was not yet over. Going up through the usual labyrinth of windowless mud-alleys where the old men crouched, smoking, under every bit of sunny wall, and the children swarmed like flies, and the cry for backshîsh buzzed incessantly about our ears, we came to an open space in the upper part of the town, and found ourselves all at once in the midst of the market. Here were peasant-folk selling farm produce; stall-keepers displaying combs, looking-glasses, gaudy printed handkerchiefs and cheap bracelets of bone and colored glass; camels lying at ease and snarling at every passer-by; patient donkeys; ownerless dogs; veiled women; blue and black robed men; and all the common sights and sounds of a native market. Here too, we found Reïs Hassan bargaining for flour, Talhemy haggling with a charcoal dealer; and the M. B.’s buying turkeys and geese for themselves and a huge store of tobacco for their crew. Most welcome sight of all, however, was a dingy chemist’s shop, about the size of a sentry-box, over the door of which was suspended an Arabic inscription; while inside, robed all in black, sat a lean and grizzled Arab, from whom we bought a big bottle of rose-water to make eye-lotion for L——’s ophthalmic patients.

Meanwhile there was a temple to be seen at Esneh; and this temple, as we had been told, was to be found close against the market-place. We looked round in vain, however, for any sign of pylon or portico. The chemist said it was “kureiyib,” which means “near by.” A camel-driver pointed to a dilapidated wooden gateway in a recess between two neighboring houses. A small boy volunteered to lead the way. We were greatly puzzled. We had expected to see the temple towering above the surrounding houses, as at Luxor, and could by no means understand how any large building to which that gateway might give access should not be visible from without.

The boy, however, ran and thumped upon the gate and shouted “Abbas! Abbas!” Mehemet Ali, who was doing escort, added some thundering blows with his staff and a little crowd gathered, but no Abbas came.

The by-standers, as usual, were liberal with their advice; recommending the boy to climb over and the sailor to knock louder and suggesting that Abbas the absent might possibly be found in a certain neighboring café. At length I somewhat impatiently expressed my opinion that there was “Mafeesh Birbeh” (no temple at all); whereupon a dozen voices were raised to assure me that the Birbeh was no myth—that it was “kebîr” (big)—that it was “kwy-ees” (beautiful)—and that all the “Ingleez” came to see it.