The neighbourhood of Gebel Silsilis, or the Mountain of the Chain, is
very interesting in many respects. After flowing for some distance
through the usual strip of alluvial plain, bordered by not very lofty
undulating ground, the Nile suddenly sweeps into a gap between two
imposing masses of rock that overhang the stream for above a mile on
either hand. The appearance of the precipices thus hemming in and
narrowing so puissant a volume of water, covered with eddies and
whirlpools, would be picturesque enough in itself; but we have here,
in addition, an immense number of caves, grottos, quarries, and
rock-temples, dotting the surface of the rock, and suggesting at first
sight the idea of a city just half ground down and solidified into a
mountain. On the western bank, numerous handsome façades and porticos
have indeed been hewn out; and mightily interesting they were to
wander through, with their elaborate tablets and cursory inscriptions,
their hieroglyphical scrolls, their sculptured gods and symbols, and
all the luxury of their architectural ornaments. But the grandest
impressions are to be sought for on the other side, whence the
materials of whole capital cities must have been removed. There is, in
fact, a wilderness of quarries there, approached by deep perpendicular
cuts, like streets leading from the river's bank, which must have
furnished a wonderful amount of sandstone to those strange old
architects who, whilst they sometimes chose to convert a mountain into
a temple, generally preferred to build up a temple into a mountain. It
takes hours merely to have a glimpse at these mighty excavations, some
of which are cavernous, with roofs supported by huge square pillars,
but most of which form great squares worked down to an enormous depth.
The rock's on the western bank are not isolated, but seem to be the
termination of a range projecting from the interior of the desert; and
a minor range, branching off, hugs the river to the northward pretty
closely for a great distance; but those on the other side are
separated by what may almost be called a plain from the Arabian chain
of hills, and might be supposed by the fanciful to have been formerly
surrounded by the rapid waters of the Nile. They are admirably placed
for the purpose to which they were applied; and although I have not
the presumption to fix dates, and say under what dynasty the quarries
first began to be worked, there is no rashness in presuming that it
must have been at a very early period indeed. The sandstone is
excellent for building purposes--far superior to the friable limestone
found lower down--and has been removed not only from this one block,
but from both sides, here and there, for a considerable distance to
the north. Many quarries likewise no doubt remain still undiscovered
and unexplored in this neighbourhood. We found the mountains worked
more or less down as far as Ramadeh; and inscriptions and sculptures,
evidently dating from very ancient times, are met with in many.
The people who inhabit the villages and hamlets of this district are
not all fellahs; indeed, I question whether, properly speaking, any
members of that humble race are to be found here. Their place is
supplied by Bedawín Arabs of the Ababde tribe, who have, to a certain
extent, abjured their wandering habits, and settled down on the
borders of a narrow piece of land given to them by the Nile. The
villages of Rasras and Fares, above the pass on the western bank, and
of El-Hamam below, as well as the more extensive and better-favoured
establishment of Silwa, with its little plain, are all peopled by men
of the same race. With the exception of El-Hamam, which has a
territory only a few feet wide, the cultivable land belonging to each
village seems adequate to its support. They have a few small groves of
palms; had just harvested some fair-sized dhourra-fields when we were
last there; and had some fields of the castor-oil plant. Perhaps
cultivation might be extended; a good deal of ground that seemed
fitted for spade or plough was overrun with a useless but beautiful
shrub called the silk-tree. Its pod, which, when just ripe, has a
blush that might rival that on the cheek of a maiden, was beginning to
wither and shrivel in the sun, and opening to scatter flakes of a
silky substance finer than the thistle's beard, leaving bare the
myriad seeds arranged something like a pine-cone.
I have called the plant useless, because vain have been the attempts
made to apply its produce to manufacturing purposes; but Arab mothers
procure from the stem a poisonous milky substance, with which they
sometimes blind their infants, to save them in after-life from the
conscription. How strangely love is corrupted in its manifestations by
the influence of tyranny! I have seen youths who have exhibited a foot
or a hand totally disabled and shrivelled up, and who boasted that
their mothers, in passionate tenderness and solicitude for them, had
thrust their young limbs into the fire, that they might retain their
presence through war, though maimed and rendered almost incapable of
work.
Few plants or trees of any value grow here spontaneously. The pretty
shrub called el-egl droops beneath the rocks of Silsilis over the
water, accompanied sometimes by a dwarf willow; and the sandy earth,
washed down the gullies on the western bank in winter, produces a
plentiful crop of the sakarân--a plant bearing a seed which has
intoxicating qualities, as the name imports, and which is said to be
used by robbers to poison or stupify persons whom they wish to rifle
at their leisure. Some colocynth is gathered here and there, and dried
in the hollows of the rocks.
It is not legal, or rather not allowed in Egypt, to be in possession
of arms without a permit; but throughout the whole of the upper
country, it is found difficult to enforce such a regulation. Men with
spears are often to be met. I saw some parties coming from Silwa armed
with long straight swords, with a cross hilt. Most men are provided
with a dagger fastened round their arm above the elbow with a thong;
others have clubs heavily loaded, or covered at one end with crocodile
scales; and guns are not unfrequent, though powder and shot are
exceedingly scarce. Our two guides, Ismaeen and Abd-el-Mahjid, had
each a single-barrelled fowling-piece--value from twenty-five to
thirty shillings. They were both expert shots, as we had occasion to
witness when we went hare-shooting with them. In fact, with their
assistance, we had hare every day for dinner during our stay. They
were very chary of their powder, and only fired when pretty sure of
success. For catching doves, and other small game, they had ingenious
little traps.
During my wanderings one day among the rocks with Ismaeen, who had
constituted himself my especial guide, I felt somewhat fatigued at a
distance from the boats, and sat down to rest under the shade of a
projecting rock. On all sides yawned the openings of quarries, cut
sheer down into the heart of the mountain to a depth which I could not
fathom from my vantage-ground. I seemed surrounded by abysses. In
front, I could see the Nile whirling its rapid current between the
overhanging rocks which closed up to the north; in the other
direction, spread a desert plain intersected by a ribbon of bright
water between two strips of brighter vegetation. Far away to the
north-west, a solitary heap of mountains marked the spot where the
unvisited ruins of Bergeh are said to lie.
[Transcriber's Note: A dieresis (umlaut) diacritical mark appears
above the letter 'g' in the word Bergeh in the above sentence in
the original.]
Ismaeen sat before me, answering the various questions which the scene
suggested. He was a fine open-faced young man, without any of the
clownishness of the fellah, and spoke in a free and easy but gentle
manner. He told me that he and Abd-el-Mahjid had been sworn friends
from infancy; that they scarcely ever separated; that where one went,
the other went; and that what one willed, the other willed. They were
connected by blood and marriage--the sister of Ismaeen having become
the wife of Abd-el-Mahjid. Both had seen what to them was a good deal
of the world. They had driven horses, camels, sheep, goats, donkeys,
as far as Keneh, even as far as Siout, for sale; and the desert was
familiar to them. The salt sea had rolled its blue waves beneath their
eyes; and they had been as far as the Gebel-el-Elbi, that mysterious
stronghold of the Bisharee, far to the south, in the wildest region of
the desert. Ismaeen, it is true, did not seem to think much of these
wild and romantic journeyings. He laid more stress on having seen the
beautiful city of Siout, where I have no doubt he felt the mingled
contempt and admiration ascribed to the Yorkshireman when he first
visits London.
Having exhausted present topics, our conversation naturally turned to
the past; and I began to be inquisitive about the legends of the
place. I knew there was a local tradition as to the origin of the name
Gebel Silsilis--the Mountain of the Chain--passed over usually with
supercilious contempt in guide-books; and I desired much to hear the
details. Ismaeen at first did not seem to attach any importance to the
subject, gave me but a cursory answer, and proceeded to relate how he
had sold donkeys for sixty piastres at Siout which were only worth
thirty at most at Fares; but I returned to the charge, and after
looking at me somewhat slyly perhaps, to ascertain if I was not making
game of him by affecting an interest in these things, the young
Ababde, with the sublime inattention to positive geography and record
history characteristic of Eastern narrative, spoke nearly as
follows:--
* * * * *
In ancient times, there was a king named Mansoor, who reigned over
Upper Egypt and over the Arabs in both deserts. His capital city was
at this place (Silsilis), which he fortified; and his name was known
and respected as far as the North Sea (the Mediterranean), and in all
the countries of the blacks to the south. Kings, and princes, and
emperors sent messages and presents to him, so that his pride was
exalted, and his satisfaction complete. He reigned a period of fifty
years, at the end of which the vigour of his frame was impaired, and
his beard flowed white as snow upon his breast; and during all that
time, he was different from every other man, in that he had not cared
to have children, and had not repined when Heaven forbore to bestow
that blessing upon him. One day, however, when he was well-stricken in
years, he happened to feel weary in his mind; he yawned, and
complained that he knew not what to do for occupation or employment.
So his wezeer said to him: 'Let us clothe ourselves in the garments of
the common people, and go forth into the city and the country, and
hear what is said, and see what is done, and perhaps we may find
matter of diversion.' The idea was pleasing to the king; and so they
dressed in a humble fashion, and going out by the gate of the garden,
entered at once into the streets and the bazaars. On other occasions,
the bustle, and the noise, and the jokes they heard, and the accidents
that used to happen, were agreeable to King Mansoor; but now he found
all things unpleasant, and even became angry when hustled by the
porters. He thought all the people he met insolent and ill-bred, and
took note of a barber, who splashed him with the contents of his basin
as he emptied it into the street, vowing that he would certainly cause
him to be hanged next day. So the wezeer, afraid that he might be
irritated into discovering himself, advised him to go forth into the
country; and they went forth into a woody district, the king moving
moodily on, neither looking to the right hand nor to the left.
Suddenly, he heard a woman's voice speaking amidst the trees, and
thought he distinguished the sound of his own name; so he stepped
aside, and, cautiously advancing, beheld a young mother sitting by a
fountain of water, dancing an infant on her knees, and singing: 'I
have my Ali, I have my child; I am happier than King Mansoor, who has
no Ali, no child.' The king frowned as black as thunder, and he
understood wherefore he was unhappy: he had no child to play on his
knee when care oppressed his heart. As he thought of this, rage
increased within him, and drawing a concealed sword, before the wezeer
could interpose with his wisdom, he smote the infant, crying: 'Woman,
be as miserable as King Mansoor.' Then he dropped the sword, and
alarmed by the shrieks of the poor mother, thought that if he was
found in that costume, the people might do vengeance on him; so he
fled by bypaths, and returned to his palace.
Having been accustomed to deal death around, the murder of the infant
did not prey upon his mind; but the words of the mother he never
forgot. 'I am miserable, because I am childless,' he repeated every
day; and he ordered all the women of his harem to be well beaten. But
he was compelled to admit, that there was now little chance of his
wishes being fulfilled. However, as a last resort, he consulted a
magician, a man of Persian origin, who had recently arrived with
merchandise in that country. This magician, after many very intricate
calculations, told him that he was destined to have a son by the
daughter of an Abyssinian prince, now betrothed to the son of the
sultan of Damascus; but that her friends would endeavour to take her
secretly down the river in a boat before the year was out, lest he
might behold and covet her. The magician also asked him wherefore he
had thrown away the 'sword of good-luck;' and explained by saying,
that the ancestors of King Mansoor had always been in possession of a
sword which brought them prosperity, and that the dynasty was to come
to an end if it were lost.
Upon this, the king gave, in the first place, orders to his servants
and his guards to search for the sword he had lost; but the woman, who
had concealed it, thinking it might afford some clue to the assassin
of her child, instantly understood, on hearing these inquiries, that
Mansoor was the man. So she vowed vengeance; and being a daughter of
the Arabs of the desert, retired to a distant branch of her tribe with
the sword, and effectually escaped all pursuit. Her name was Lulu;
from that time forth she abjured all feminine pursuits, and became a
man in action, riding a fierce horse, and wielding sword and spear;
'For I,' said she, 'when the period is fulfilled, will smite down this
king who has slain my child.'
Meanwhile, Mansoor had also given orders to stretch an enormous chain
across the river between the two parts of his city, so as to prevent
all boats from passing until searched for the daughter of the
Abyssinian prince; and this is the origin of the name of these
mountains. For a long time, no such person could be discovered; but at
length, when the year was nearly out, a maiden of surpassing
loveliness was found concealed in a mean kanjia, and being brought
before the king, and interrogated, confessed that she was the daughter
of Sala-Solo, Prince of Gondar. Mansoor upon this explained the
decrees of Heaven; and although she wept, and said that she was
betrothed to the son of the sultan of Damascus, he paid no heed to
her, but took her to wife, and in due course of time had a son by her,
whom he named Ali; and he would thereafter smile grimly to, himself,
and say: 'I now have an Ali, I now have a child.'
The magician, who returned about this time, being consulted, said
that if the boy passed the critical period of fifteen years, he would
live, like his father, to a good old age. So Mansoor caused a
subterranean palace to be hewn out of the mountain, in the deeper
chambers of which, fitted up with all magnificence, he caused Ali to
be kept by a faithful nurse; whilst he himself dwelt in the front
chambers that overlooked the river, and gave audience to all who came
and floated in boats beneath his balconies; but no one was allowed to
ascend, except the wezeer and a few proved friends: [There, said
Ismaeen, pointing to one of the largest excavations on the opposite
side, there is the palace of King Mansoor.]
Other things happened meanwhile. The mother of Ali refusing to be
comforted, was divorced, and sent to the son of the king of Damascus,
who loved her, and who took her to wife. She hated King Mansoor, but
she yearned after her first-born, and she endeavoured to persuade her
husband to raise an army, and march to Upper Egypt, to slay the one
and seize the other. For many years he was not able to comply with her
wishes; but at length he collected a vast power, and crossing the
desert of Suwez, advanced rapidly towards the dominions of King
Mansoor.
It came to pass, that about the same time the fame of a mighty warrior
grew among the Arabs, one who scoffed at the king's name, attacked his
troops, and plundered his cultivated provinces. All the forces that
could be collected, were despatched to reduce this rebel, but in vain.
They were easily defeated, almost by the prowess of their chief's
unassisted arm; and it became known that the capital itself was to be
attacked before long. At this juncture, the intelligence arrived that
a hostile army was approaching from the north, and had already reached
the Two Mountains (Gebelein); and then, that another army had shewn
itself to the south, about the neighbourhood of the Cataracts--the
former, under the command of the sultan of Damascus; and the latter,
under that of Sala-Solo, his father-in-law, Prince of Gondar. All
misfortunes seemed to shower at once upon the unfortunate Mansoor. He
made what military preparations he could, although his powers had
already been taxed nearly to the utmost to repress the Arabs, and sent
ambassadors to soften the wrath of his enemies. They would accept,
however, no composition; and continued to close in upon him, one from
the north, the other from the south, threatening destruction to the
whole country.
The miserable king now began to repent of having wished for a child.
But he could not help loving Ali, in spite of all things; indeed, he
perhaps loved him the more for the misfortunes he seemed to have
brought. At anyrate, he spent night and day by his side, saying to
himself, that yet a few days, and the fifteen years would be passed,
and the boy at least would be safe. He was encouraged to hope by the
slow progress of the two armies, which seemed bent more on enjoying
themselves, than on performing any feats of arms.
But there was an enemy more terrible than these two--namely, Lulu, the
mother of the murdered child Ali, who had thrown aside her woman's
garments, and become a mighty warrior, for the sake of her revenge.
She wielded the 'sword of good-luck;' and hearing of the approach of
the two armies, feared that her projects might be interfered with by
them. So she collected her forces, marched down to the city-walls,
attacked them at night, was victorious, and before morning entirely
possessed the place, with the exception of the subterranean retreat of
King Mansoor, which it seemed almost impossible to take by force. She
manned a large number of boats, came beneath the water-wall, and
summoned the garrison to surrender; but they remained silent, and
looked at the king, who stood upon the terrace, with his long white
beard reaching to his knees, offering to parley, in order to gain
time. Lulu, however, drawing the 'sword of good-luck,' ordered ladders
to be placed, and mounting to the storm, gained a complete
victory--all the garrison being slain, and Mansoor flying to his child
in the interior chambers. Here the bereaved mother, hot for vengeance,
followed, her flaming weapon in hand, and thrusting the trembling old
man aside, smote the youth to the heart, crying: 'King Mansoor, be as
miserable as Lulu, the mother of Ali.' He understood who it was, and
cried and beat his breast, incapable of other action. Then Lulu slew
him likewise, and returning to her followers, who were pillaging the
city, related what she had done. The report soon spread abroad, and
readied the two hostile armies, both of which were indignant at the
death of Ali; so they advanced rapidly, and surrounding the place,
attacked and utterly destroyed the followers of Lulu. She herself was
taken prisoner, and being led before the queen of Damascus, was
condemned by her to a cruel death, which she suffered accordingly. The
city afterwards fell gradually to ruin, and the neighbouring country
became desert.
* * * * *
This sanguinary story, though containing some of the staple machinery
of Eastern fiction, was evidently rather of Bedawín than civilised
origin; and, as such, interested me, in spite of the inartificial
manner in which it was told, the meagre details, and the repulsive
incidents. Ismaeen's only qualities as a historian were animation and
faith. He had heard the narrative from his father, to whom, likewise,
it had been handed down hereditarily. Everybody in the country knew it
to be true. I might ask Abd-el-Mahjid. A shot close at hand announced
the presence of that worthy, who soon appeared with a fine large hare.
On being appealed to, the cunning rogue--perhaps anxious to be thought
a philosopher--said that, for his part, though most people certainly
believed the story, he really had no decided opinion about the matter.