To where on high the mystic symbols glow
Of Cross and Angel’s Car that next I hail;
Then Venus—Beauty bathed in lambent stream
Of astral milk, outpour’d long ages past
From time-worn breasts!—to these, in the first gleam
Of morning freshness, from the dreary waste,
Whilst as our bark adown the dim stream floats,
With rower’s boat-song blends the frog’s last notes.
Thus the days went on monotonously, so monotonously that we were often quite feverish with ennui! At the beginning, the building of the fort and settling down gave us a little variety, but of course that did not last.
Winter in the Sudan would really not be much worse than anywhere else if plenty of occupation and movement could be secured, with occasional change of air; but it becomes simply deadly dull when one is limited to a small space, compelled to inhale the same miasmic exhalations, and absorb the same kind of microbes every day and every night.