Soon they had passed the healthy, breezy hills which are but offshoots of the Uruguru range, and the land now eloped before them into the low, flat basin of the Wami river, which during the rainy season becomes one great swamp.
But the season, at the time our travellers passed over the Makata Plain—as the basin is called—was soon after the effects of the violent monsoon had disappeared, in July, when the land presents an unusually bleached appearance; the grass is crispy, ripe, and extremely dry, the ground is seamed with ugly rents and gape, and the rivers, Little Makata and Mbengerenga, are but little better than small rivulets. The caravans were therefore enabled to cross the breadth of the Makata Plain within two days, and arrived at Mbumi in Usagara on the evening of the second day.
From Mbumi, in the same order as before, avoiding the Mukondokwa Yalley, the steep passes of Bubeho, and the desolate, forlorn-looking plains of Ugogo, the lengthy file of men—carriers, soldiers, and slaves—skirted the eastern end of the Mukondokwa range, and on the third day from Simbamwenni, arrived in a country which differed materially in aspect from that which they had just left. Mountains of a loftier altitude, in peak upon peak, in tier upon tier, range upon range, met the eye everywhere. Green trees covered their slopes in an apparently endless expanse of vegetation. The sycamore, the tamarind, the beautiful mimosa and kolqual vied with each other in height and beauty, while a thousand other trees, shrubs, plants, and flowers aided to give verdancy and freshness to the scene.
Down the hard, steep, rocky beds of granite and sandstone, with here and there basalt and porphyry, flint, and quartz, foamed the sparkling streams, which, when encountered on an African journey, give zest to the travel and add something to the pleasures of memory. A deep gaping fissure in a high jutting wall of rock, through which bubbled the clear water in volumes, or a great towering rock, with perpendicular walls, to which clung, despite the apparent impossibility, ferns, and plants, and moss, thick and velvety, or a conical hill, which ambitiously hid its head in clouds, were scenes to be treasured up when the march should hereafter become monotonous through excessive sameness of feature.
When they were in camp and had rested, our young friends went into raptures over the bold beauty of mountain scenery, and Belim, and Abdullah, and Mussoud were constantly heard uttering their exclamations of admiration. Selim especially, imbued as he was with the religious faith of his father, was filled with a loftier feeling than that youthful glow and exhilaration which his companions felt. Had he the power, he would like to have poured out his soul in fervid verse about the grandeur, the indescribable beauty of Nature in her wildest and most prolific mood. But being as yet a boy, in whom the poetic instinct and feeling is strong, he said to his father, one day, as the scenery was unusually picturesque:
“Hast thou ever, my father, during these days of travel over these great mountain-tops, thought that Palestine, the promised land, must be something like this? The land flowing with milk and honey. Why, honey is already plentiful here—we need but the cows to furnish milk; but if milk means the richness of earth, the never-dying fertility of the soil, look but once on this view now before us, and tell me, think you Palestine can be richer than this? Why, I feel—I do not exactly know what—but it is something that if I have never been good or thankful to Allah for his goodness to men, that I could be good for ever in future. Do you understand this feeling, father Amer, or is it singular in me?”
“No, it is not singular, my dear son; but go on, tell me what is in thy mind,” replied Sheikh Amer, himself gazing on the revealed might of Nature.
“I have also a feeling—as if I knew it for the first time—that this earth is large, very large, that it is immense, without limit or boundary, and that, consequently, God, who made all this, must be truly great. With the mountain air which I now inhale I seem to have imbibed something purer, more subtle; yet that thing is capable of giving me more expansion. Why was it that, before coming to these mountains, I never thought upon this subject? Why was it that, before to-day, I had no one thought of what might happen to-morrow, beyond what might happen to our caravan, or beyond what I should see on the road? Yet at this moment, though my eyes seem to rest upon this view of loveliness, I know I do not look upon its details or any particular object, but they seem to drink it all with one look, and more, infinitely more, than is contained in the area before me. I seem to have eyes in my mind which have a keener sight, more extended vision, greater power than the eyes of my head, which can see so far, and no farther. Yet to the sight of the inner eyes, which see not, yet can see a thousand times vaster scene, a thousand times greater prospect is revealed. Hills, dales, mountains, plains, valleys, forests, rivers, lakes, seas, all lovely, and lovelier than what we see now, are comprehended within the scope of my hidden and unseen eyes. What is this new sight or feeling, my father? Canst thou tell me?”
“Ah, my child, it is simply the awakening of the hitherto latent mind; or thought, exercised by but a faint experience, has been touched by Nature, and begins to dawn,” replied Amer. “God had endowed thee with the power of thought and of mind when he gave thee life. It was impossible that it could remain for ever hidden. The hour that a child begins to exercise his mind seeth him advanced a step nearer to manhood. It will kindle and expand as thou growest in years, and in each day’s march thou wilt find fresh food for it. It remains with God and thine own nature to improve it with every breath of air thy lungs inhale. By diligently reading the Küran and studying the precepts of Mohammed—blessed be his name!—thou wilt so protect that thought pure from evil as the tiny germ God implanted in thy breast at thy birth.”
“But tell me, father, one thing—it is different from that which thou hast been just telling me,” asked Selim. “Thou knowest Simba and Moto are thy slaves. Is it right, or is it not, to own slaves?”