At the Pyramids I would have written to you, but I found myself in the hands of the Philistines—Beduoins, and never did I enjoy anything more. Beyond all the wonder, sublimity of feeling and unutterable admiration for them, the Pyramids, another of the seven—came a curious thrill of bond and blood that made me sit down with and walk about with, “that throng of importunate vendors of spurious antiques,” and try to get at them. Shrewd, amiable, bright, ready, handsome, picturesque-looking fellows—we were soon on the best of terms. We gripped hands at parting. No, the devil is not as black as he is painted! They made Miss B—- nervous. But I hope I shall see them again.
Also we saw the lone pillar at Heliopolis, a garden in which is the “Virgin’s tree”—I have leaves and a ball from it; it is a sycamore—an ostrich garden with 600 of the bare-legged bypeds strutting round and now and then flapping their $300 apiece matchless feathers. The Museum, where mummies “are a drug,” and genuine scarabea too, but you could not buy one of them for “a mint of money.” The island of Rhoda, where Pharaoh’s daughter picked up Moses. The indescribable mosques, tombs of the Khalifs, Bachas and Marmelukes, and just a thousand or more wonders that seemed to have been handed down from the “Arabian Nights.” Camels, donkeys, turbaned Turks, Nubians blacker than night, veiled women—I can more easily tell you what was not than what was there. I am only sorry I cannot go back and stay “ever so long.” Six days—that is only an aggravation!
The steamer lands at every point of interest, and arrangements are made for us to see them. Donkeys and camels where too far to walk. We went on donkeys to see the site of Memphis, Tombs of Apis and the Serapum, etc. My donkey and its little sixteen year old driver were jewels. The first was as well gaited as any horse, and the latter was proud to show him off—too proud to take any account of his own sixteen mile trot. All we saw at Memphis was the site of some fragments of statues and temples. The shifting sands sometimes bury it from sight; sometimes, but rarely, leave a little bare. The tombs are in splendid order for seeing; long avenues, the floor a perfect level, and everybody carrying a candle. You can fancy how unique and beautiful the flitting glimmer of the moving throng—now peering into the dark recesses in which are the great, massive tombs, or again running their lights along the walls to see the exquisite picture stones, or gathering in groups to discuss them. But oh! how I wish all I care for could see with their own eyes!
As we glide along, we see many characteristic features of this “twelve miles wide” strip of wonderland. Long trains of camels; Bedouin encampments; stately fellows in white turbans and flowing draperies, sweeping past on their fleet steeds; vast green fields; mud towns and villages; the tall, beautiful palms in groves and avenues; sugar plantations, with their stacked canes and great factories; long tongues of sand fringed with pelicans; flocks of herons winging their way in the blue sky; and—there is the luncheon gong!
After that interesting collation, how tiresome eating is! I wish we could live on air, perfume of flowers, sunbeams and the like. Everybody nearly is English, and they come out strong as trenchermen and women. One, Canon Farrer, not the canon of Westminster, eats and drinks to—well, it is none of my business. I need see nothing. I do not wish to. The “guests” of this steamer number ex-members of Parliament and their families, canons, curates, and plenty of people with “handles to their names;” but they are not specially interesting. Mr. Cook owns these steamers and is himself aboard—a large, rather fine-looking man, but far from being a model of deportment; simply seems quite deficient in good manners.
The river, the land, the people, the animals, the ruins and their history, and legends with books, books forever! furnish my daily food. But I like companionship, and if the whole truth must be told prefer that of some really “splendid man” to this of my own sex. One can live too much in books, I fear. Do not they unfit for
“Living in common ways with
Common men?”
But why should I complain of anything under the sun?
Well, good-bye.
L. G. C.