View from the Convent Wall--Appearance of the Desert--Its grandeur
and freedom--Its contrast to the Convent Garden--Beauty and
luxuriance of Eastern Vegetation--Picturesque Group of the Monks
and their Visitors--The Abyssinian Monks--Their appearance--Their
austere mode of Life--The Abyssinian College--Description of the
Library--The mode of Writing in Abyssinia--Immense Labour required
to write an Abyssinian book--Paintings and
Illuminations--Disappointment of the Abbot at finding the supposed
Treasure-box only an old Book--Purchase of the MSS. and Books--The
most precious left behind--Since acquired for the British Museum.
On leaving the dark recesses of the tower I paused at the narrow door by
which we had entered, both to accustom my eyes to the glare of the
daylight, and to look at the scene below me. I stood on the top of a
steep flight of stone steps, by which the door of the tower was
approached from the court of the monastery: the steps ran up the inside
of the outer wall, which was of sufficient thickness to allow of a
narrow terrace within the parapet; from this point I could look over the
wall on the left hand upon the desert, whose dusty plains stretched out
as far as I could see, in hot and dreary loneliness to the horizon. To
those who are not familiar with the aspect of such a region as this, it
may be well to explain that a desert such as that which now surrounded
me resembles more than anything else a dusty turnpike-road in England
on a hot summer's day, extended interminably, both as to length and
breadth. A country of low rounded hills, the surface of which is
composed entirely of gravel, dust, and stones, will give a good idea of
the general aspect of a desert. Yet, although parched and dreary in the
extreme from their vastness and openness, there is something grand and
sublime in the silence and loneliness of these burning plains; and the
wandering tribes of Bedouins who inhabit them are seldom content to
remain long in the narrow inclosed confines of cultivated land. There is
always a fresh breeze in the desert, except when the terrible hot wind
blows; and the air is more elastic and pure than where vegetation
produces exhalations which in all hot climates are more or less heavy
and deleterious. The air of the desert is always healthy, and no race of
men enjoy a greater exemption from weakness, sickness, and disease than
the children of the desert, who pass their lives in wandering to and fro
in search of the scanty herbage on which their flocks are fed, far from
the cares and troubles of busy cities, and free from the oppression
which grinds down the half-starved cultivators of the fertile soil of
Egypt.
Whilst from my elevated position I looked out on my left upon the mighty
desert, on my right how different was the scene! There below my feet lay
the convent garden in all the fresh luxuriance of tropical vegetation.
Tufts upon tufts of waving palms overshadowed the immense succulent
leaves of the banana, which in their turn rose out of thickets of the
pomegranate rich with its bright green leaves and its blossoms of that
beautiful and vivid red which is excelled by few even of the most
brilliant flowers of the East. These were contrasted with the deep dark
green of the caroub or locust-tree; and the yellow apples of the lotus
vied with the clusters of green limes with their sweet white flowers
which luxuriated in a climate too hot and sultry for the golden fruit of
the orange, which is not to be met with in the valley of the Nile.
Flowers and fair branches exhaling rich perfume and bearing freshness in
their very aspect became more beautiful from their contrast to the
dreary arid plains outside the convent walls, and this great difference
was owing solely to there being a well of water in this spot from which
a horse or mule was constantly employed to draw the fertilizing streams
which nourished the teeming vegetation of this monastic garden.
I stood gazing and moralizing at these contrasted scenes for some time;
but at length when I turned my eyes upon my companions and myself, it
struck me that we also were somewhat remarkable in our way. First there
was the old blind grey-bearded abbot, leaning on his staff, surrounded
with three or four dark robed Coptic monks, holding in their hands the
lighted candles with which we had explored the secret recesses of the
oil-cellar; there was I dressed in the long robes of a merchant of the
East, with a small book in the breast of my gown and a big one under
each arm; and there were my servants armed to the teeth and laden with
old books; and one and all we were so covered with dirt and wax from top
to toe, that we looked more as if we had been up the chimney than like
quiet people engaged in literary researches. One of the monks was
leaning in a brown study upon the ponderous and gigantic volume in its
primæval binding, in the interior of which the blind abbot had hoped to
find a treasure. Perched upon the battlements of this remote monastery
we formed as picturesque a group as one might wish to see; though
perhaps the begrimed state of our flowing robes as well as of our hands
and faces would render a somewhat remote point of view more agreeable to
the artist than a closer inspection.
While we had been standing on the top of the steps, I had heard from
time to time some incomprehensible sounds which seemed to arise from
among the green branches of the palms and fig-trees in a corner of the
garden at our feet. "What," said I to a bearded Copt, who was seated on
the steps, "is that strange howling noise which I hear among the trees?
I have heard it several times when the rustling of the wind among the
branches has died away for a moment. It sounds something like a chant,
or a dismal moaning song: only it is different in its cadence from
anything that I have heard before." "That noise," replied the monk, "is
the sound of the service of the church which is being chanted by the
Abyssinian monks. Come down the steps and I will show you their chapel
and their library. The monastery which they frequented in this desert
has fallen to decay; and they now live here, their numbers being
recruited occasionally by pilgrims on their way from Abyssinia to
Jerusalem, some of whom pass by each year; not many now, to be sure; but
still fewer return to their own land."
Giving up my precious manuscripts to the guardianship of my servants and
desiring them to put them down carefully in my cell, I accompanied my
Coptic friend into the garden, and turning round some bushes, we
immediately encountered one of the Abyssinian monks walking with a book
in his hand under the shade of the trees. Presently we saw three or four
more; and very remarkable looking persons they were. These holy brethren
were as black as crows; tall, thin, ascetic looking men of a most
original aspect and costume. I have seen the natives of many strange
nations, both before and since, but I do not know that I ever met with
so singular a set of men, so completely the types of another age and of
a state of things the opposite to European, as these Abyssinian
Eremites. They were black, as I have already said, which is not the
usual complexion of the natives of Habesh; and they were all clothed in
tunics of wash leather made, they told me, of gazelle skins. This
garment came down to their knees, and was confined round their waist
with a leathern girdle. Over their shoulders they had a strap supporting
a case like a cartridge-box, of thick brown leather, containing a
manuscript book; and above this they wore a large shapeless cloak or
toga, of the same light yellow wash leather as the tunic; I do not think
that they wore anything on the head, but this I do not distinctly
remember. Their legs were bare, and they had no other clothing, if I may
except a profuse smearing of grease; for they had anointed themselves in
the most lavish manner, not with the oil of gladness, but with that of
castor, which however had by no means the effect of giving them a
cheerful countenance; for although they looked exceedingly slippery and
greasy, they seemed to be an austere and dismal set of fanatics: true
disciples of the great Macarius, the founder of these secluded
monasteries, and excellently calculated to figure in that grim chorus of
his invention, or at least which is called after his name, "La danse
Macabre," known to us by the appellation of the Dance of Death. They
seemed to be men who fasted much and feasted little; great observers
were they of vigils, of penance, of pilgrimages, and midnight masses;
eaters of bitter herbs for conscience' sake. It was such men as these
who lived on the tops of columns, and took up their abodes in tombs, and
thought it was a sign of holiness to look like a wild beast--that it was
wicked to be clean, and superfluous to be useful in this world; and who
did evil to themselves that good might come. Poor fellows! they meant
well, and knew no better; and what more can be said for the endeavours
of the best of men?
Accompanied by a still increasing number of these wild priests we
traversed the shady garden, and came to a building with a flat roof,
which stood in the south-east corner of the enclosure and close to the
outer wall. This was the college or consistory of the Abyssinian monks,
and the accompanying sketch made upon the spot will perhaps explain the
appearance of this room better than any written description. The round
thing upon the floor is a table upon which the dishes of their frugal
meal were set; by the side of this low table we sat upon the ground on
the skin of some great wild beast, which did duty as a carpet. This room
was also their library, and on my remarking the number of books which I
saw around me they seemed proud of their collection, and told me that
there were not many such libraries as this in their country. There were
perhaps nearly fifty volumes, and as the entire literature of Abyssinia
does not include more than double that number of works, I could easily
imagine that what I saw around me formed a very considerable
accumulation of manuscripts, considering the barbarous state of the
country from which they came.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE ABYSSINIAN LIBRARY, IN THE MONASTERY OF
SOURIANI ON THE NATRON LAKES.
Abyssinian monk clothed in leather.
The dining table.
The blind abbot leaning over the Author.
Abyssinian monk.
Coptic monk.
The books hanging from wooden pegs let into the wall.
The Author's Egyptian servants.]
The disposition of the manuscripts in this library was very original. I
have had no means of ascertaining whether all the libraries of Abyssinia
are arranged in the same style. The room was about twenty-six feet long,
twenty wide, and twelve high; the roof was formed of the trunks of palm
trees, across which reeds were laid, which supported the mass of earth
and plaster, of which the terrace roof was composed; the interior of the
walls was plastered white with lime; the windows, at a good height from
the ground, were unglazed, but were defended with bars of iron-wood or
some other hard wood; the door opened into the garden, and its lock,
which was of wood also, was of that peculiar construction which has been
used in Egypt from time immemorial. A wooden shelf was carried in the
Egyptian style round the walls, at the height of the top of the door,
and on this shelf stood sundry platters, bottles, and dishes for the use
of the community. Underneath the shelf various long wooden pegs
projected from the wall; they were each about a foot and a half long,
and on them hung the Abyssinian manuscripts, of which this curious
library was entirely composed.
The books of Abyssinia are bound in the usual way, sometimes in red
leather and sometimes in wooden boards, which are occasionally
elaborately carved in rude and coarse devices: they are then enclosed
in a case, tied up with leather thongs; to this case is attached a strap
for the convenience of carrying the volume over the shoulders, and by
these straps the books were hung to the wooden pegs, three or four on a
peg, or more if the books were small: their usual size was that of a
small, very thick quarto. The appearance of the room, fitted up in this
style, together with the presence of various long staves, such as the
monks of all the Oriental churches lean upon at the time of prayer,
resembled less a library than a barrack or guard-room, where the
soldiers had hung their knapsacks and cartridge-boxes against the wall.
All the members of this church militant could read fluently out of their
own books, which is more than the Copts could do in whose monastery they
were sojourning. Two or three, with whom I spoke, were intelligent men,
although not much enlightened as to the affairs of this world: the
perfume of their leather garments and oily bodies was, however, rather
too powerful for my olfactory nerves, and after making a slight sketch
of their library I was glad to escape into the open air of the beautiful
garden, where I luxuriated in the shade of the palms and the
pomegranates. The strange costumes and wild appearance of these black
monks, and the curious arrangement of their library, the uncouth sounds
of their singing and howling, and the clash of their cymbals in the
ancient convent of the Natron lakes, formed a scene such as I believe
few Europeans have witnessed.
The labour required to write an Abyssinian book is immense, and
sometimes many years are consumed in the preparation of a single volume.
They are almost all written upon skins; the only one not written upon
vellum that I have met with is in my own possession; it is on charta
bombycina. The ink which they use is composed of gum, lampblack, and
water. It is jet black, and keeps its colour for ever: indeed in this
respect all Oriental inks are infinitely superior to ours, and they have
the additional advantage of not being corrosive or injurious either to
the pen or paper. Their pen is the reed commonly used in the East, only
the nib is made sharper than that which is required to write the Arabic
character. The ink-horn is usually the small end of a cow's horn, which
is stuck into the ground at the feet of the scribe. In the most ancient
Greek frescos and illuminations this kind of ink-horn is the one
generally represented, and it seems to have been usually inserted in a
hole in the writing-desk: no writing-desk, however, is in use among the
children of Habesh. Seated upon the ground, the square piece of thick
greasy vellum is held upon the knee or on the palm of the left hand.
The Abyssinian alphabet consists of 8 times 26 letters, 208 characters
in all, and these are each written distinctly and separately like the
letters of an European printed book. They have no cursive writing; each
letter is therefore painted, as it were, with the reed pen, and as the
scribe finishes each he usually makes a horrible face and gives a
triumphant flourish with his pen. Thus he goes on letter by letter, and
before he gets to the end of the first line he is probably in a
perspiration from his nervous apprehension of the importance of his
undertaking. One page is a good day's work, and when he has done it he
generally, if he is not too stiff, follows the custom of all little Arab
boys, and swings his head or his body from side to side, keeping time to
a sort of nasal recitative, without the help of which it would seem that
few can read even a chapter of the Koran, although they may know it by
heart.
Some of these manuscripts are adorned with the quaintest and grimmest
illuminations conceivable. The colours are composed of various ochres.
In general the outlines of the figures are drawn first with the pen. The
paint brush is made by chewing the end of a reed till it is reduced to
filaments and then nibbling it into a proper form: the paint brushes of
the ancient Egyptians were made in the same way, and excellent brooms
for common purposes are made at Cairo by beating the thick end of a
palm-branch till the fibres are separated from the pith, the part above,
which is not beaten, becoming the handle of the broom. The Abyssinian
having nibbled and chewed his reed till he thinks it will do, proceeds
to fill up the spaces between the inked outlines with his colours. The
Blessed Virgin is usually dressed in blue; the complexion of the figures
is a brownish red, and those in my possession have a curious cast of the
eyes, which gives them a very cunning look. St John, in a MS. which I
have now before me, is represented with woolly hair, and has two marks
or gashes on each side of his face, in accordance with the Abyssinian or
Galla custom of cutting through the skin of the face, breast, and arms,
so as to leave an indelible mark. This is done in youth, and is said to
preserve the patient from several diseases. The colours are mixed up
with the yolk of an egg, and the numerous mistakes and slips of the
brush are corrected by a wipe from a wet finger or thumb, which is
generally kept ready in the artist's mouth during the operation; and it
is lucky if he does not give it a bite in the agony of composition, when
with an unsteady hand the eye of some famous saint is smeared all over
the nose by an unfortunate swerve of the nibbled reed.
It is not often, however, that the arts of drawing and painting are thus
ruthlessly mangled on the pages of their books, and notwithstanding the
disadvantages under which the writers labour, some of these manuscripts
are beautifully written, and are worthy of being compared with the best
specimens of calligraphy in any language. I have a MS. containing the
book of Enoch, and several books of the Old Testament, which is
remarkable for the perfection of its writing, the straightness of the
lines, and the equal size and form of the characters throughout:
probably many years were required to finish it. The binding is of wooden
boards, not sawn or planed, but chopped apparently out of a tree or a
block of hard wood, a task of patience and difficulty which gives
evidence of the enthusiasm and goodwill which have been displayed in the
production of a work, in toiling upon which the pious man in the
simplicity of his heart doubtless considered that he was labouring for
the honour of the church, _ad majorem Dei gloriam_. It was this feeling
which in the middle ages produced all those glorious works of art which
are the admiration of modern times, and its total absence now is deeply
to be deplored in our own country.
Having satiated my curiosity as to the Abyssinian monks and their
curious library, I returned to my own room, where I was presently joined
by the abbot and his companion, who came for the promised bottle of
rosoglio, which they now required the more to keep up their spirits on
finding that the box of treasure was only a large old book. They
murmured and talked to themselves between the cups of rosoglio, and so
great was their disappointment that it was some time before they
recovered the equilibrium of their minds. "You found no treasure," I
remarked, "but I am a lover of old books; let me have the big one which
you thought was a box and the others which I have brought out with me,
and I will give you a certain number of piastres in exchange. By this
arrangement we shall be both of us contented, for the money will be
useful to you, and I should be glad to carry away the books as a
memorial of my visit to this interesting spot." "Ah!" said the abbot.
"Another cup of rosoglio," said I; "help yourself." "How much will you
give?" asked the abbot. "How much do you want?" said I; "all the money I
have with me is at your service." "How much is that?" he inquired. Out
came the bag of money, and the agreeable sound of the clinking of the
pieces of gold or dollars, I forget which they were, had a soothing
effect upon the nerves of the blind man, and in short the bottle and the
bargain were concluded at the same moment.
The Coptic and Syriac manuscripts were stowed away in one side of a
great pair of saddle-bags. "Now," said I, "we will put these in the
other side, and you shall take it out and see the Arabs place it on the
camel." We could not by any packing or shifting get all the books into
the bag, and the two monks would not let me make another parcel, lest,
as I understood, the rest of the brethren should discover what it was,
and claim their share of the spoil. In this dreadful dilemma I looked at
each of the books, not knowing which to leave behind, but seeing that
the quarto was the most imperfect, I abandoned it, and I have now reason
to believe, on seeing the manuscripts of the British Museum, that this
was the famous book with the date of A.D. 411, the most precious
acquisition to any library that has been made in modern times, with the
exception, as I conceive, of some in my own collection. It is, however,
a satisfaction to think that this book, which contains some lost
epistles of St. Ignatius, has not been thrown away, but has fallen into
better hands than mine.
THE CONVENT OF THE PULLEY.