By MRS. JOSEPH COOK.
Two months have passed since the journeyings of the Chautauqua
quartette were interrupted by the illness of their beloved
commander-in-chief, and now, under new leadership, they are about
to resume their travels with the “limited time” for which American
tourists are famous. Much must be omitted which was in the original
program, and piteous are the groans of these disappointed Chautauquans,
as one after another of their anticipated delights is ruled out of
the new plan. “We can not go to Germany!” “Can not go to Germany!”
exclaim the four as with one voice. And then one by one they utter
their separate laments. “Not see the Sistine Madonna!” “Nor the Rhine!”
“Nor Rauch’s lovely marble of Queen Louisa at Charlottenburg!” “Nor
Heidelberg Castle!” “I feel for you from my heart,” says the leader,
“but let me beg of you to reserve some of your emotion, for I have
other disappointments in store for you. It is quite likely that you
will visit the continent of Europe again, but this may be our only
opportunity to go around the world. We do not want to make the circuit
of the globe after the fashion of Jules Verne. Be prepared for another
shock. We can not stop in Switzerland!” The faces of the quartette
grew positively pale at this announcement. There were tears in the
eyes of the æsthetic member, who had been improving the two months’
delay in practising sketching from nature, and confused murmurs of
“Interlaken—Chamounix—the ascent of the Rigi—Lucerne and Thorwaldsen’s
lion—the Lake of Geneva, and the Castle of Chillon—alas! alas!” came
from the party.
“Let me tell you our best plan,” said the leader, who felt herself in
an awkward position in thus coming in to take the place of another, and
obliged at the outset to insist upon slaying the cherished hopes of the
Chautauqua quartette. “I am sure none of you want to visit any of these
famous places simply to say that you have been there, or to ‘see all
that you can in five minutes,’ like the over-hurried traveler Howells
describes in his ‘Venetian Journeys.’ We must reach Italy by the
shortest possible route. We can not stop there half as long as we shall
desire. Rome is inexhaustible, and we want to see the Pyramids and be
ready next month to set sail from Suez for India.” The gloomy shadows
which had fallen on the faces of the eager Chautauquans lifted a little
at the mention of Rome and the Pyramids, and a sweet reasonableness
began to take possession of them. The leader continued: “We leave Paris
at nine o’clock this evening, and in twenty-four hours we shall be in
Turin. We shall cross the Alps by the Mont Cenis tunnel, and you will
have a glimpse of Switzerland, and be in the midst of grand mountain
scenery all day to-morrow. When we reach Turin we will decide which
route we will take to Rome, for the City of the Seven Hills must be our
chief objective point.”
Packing to resume the journey was now the business of the day. Our
practical member made all necessary arrangements for us. She visited
the Gare de Lyons that afternoon and had our tickets _visèd_, for
we had been assured that, disagreeable as it might be to join a
superintended party which moves according to an inexorable plan, it
would save us some annoyance to buy the tickets issued by any of the
responsible tourist organizations and then there would be no awkward
mistakes at small railway stations, where only Italian was spoken, and
we found that this arrangement worked admirably. Our energetic little
woman of business, with her imperturbable good nature and winning
smile, which always melted the hearts of stern railway officials,
came back to the pension with the assurance that everything was
satisfactorily arranged, and by judiciously feeing the guard we should
be able to secure a railway carriage to ourselves.
Twenty-four hours of railway travel and we reach Turin, fatigued enough
for a good night’s rest at the Hotel Trombetta. We make an early visit
the next morning to the Royal Palace, the residence of Victor Emmanuel,
while Turin was the capital of Italy, which position she held from 1859
until 1865. The palace has the plainest possible exterior, but the long
suites of apartments are fitted up in a lavish manner, and these rooms
are reached by a magnificent marble stair-case. Glass chandeliers,
gilded and frescoed ceilings, beautifully polished floors of inlaid
woods, were the main characteristics of the rooms. A marble bust of the
wife of Victor Emmanuel showed a sweet, womanly face, with a queenly
pose of the head. Here were many interesting portraits and miniatures
of the house of Savoy—among others one of the Princess de Lamballe, who
suffered such cruel indignities from the Paris mob for being the friend
of Marie Antoinette. Powdered hair, rolled back from the forehead with
a long curl each side of the neck, gentle brown eyes and a refined
face, with a touch of sadness in it, which seemed to forebode her fate,
made up the picture.
In our drive about the city we talk over our future route. “There are
two ways to Rome,” says the leader, “and we should not long hesitate
which of them to take if it were not for this serious embarrassment in
respect to time. Our inclinations point to Milan, Venice and Florence,
but it is not safe to trust ourselves in those alluring places, so
we will proceed to-morrow to Genoa, and thence to Pisa, and so on to
Rome.” The Chautauquans are becoming philosophic. “The Continent of
Europe another time!” saves them from despair under these repeated
disappointments.
Genoa, with its memories of Christopher Columbus, is not a very
attractive place except for those who have a fondness for silver
filigree jewelry. Our few hours here gave us opportunity to visit
several gaudily decorated churches; to see the exteriors of palaces,
cold and cheerless-looking under a gray sky, though warmth and sunlight
might have made the courts pleasant, in which we caught glimpses of
fountains, statuary and colonnades. In the Andrea Doria palace we saw
a portrait of the old admiral with his favorite cat, but most of the
rooms were desolate and unadorned.
The journey from Genoa to Pisa is a succession of tunnels, eighty
in all, many of them of considerable length, so that it seemed as
though we were traveling by night instead of day. The views of the
Mediterranean were aggravatingly beautiful as we emerged from the
tunnels, but we had only time to exclaim and spring forward toward the
window when our enthusiasm would receive a sudden check as we plunged
into darkness again. Now and then our unobstructed vision permitted us
to see these bold promontories, through which our course lay, bordering
the coast and pushing their sharp tusks into the sea. At Massa the
Marble Mountains, rivalling those of Carrara, contrasted finely with
nearer green slopes.
The objects of chief interest at Pisa center in one square. Here
are the Cathedral, the Leaning Tower, the Baptistery and the Campo
Santo. These beautiful buildings, from four to six hundred years old,
have been wonderfully preserved from the ravaging tooth of time. The
interior of the Cathedral is a basilica with nave, double aisles and
elliptical dome over the center. Its sixty-eight columns are ancient
Roman and Greek, and were captured by the Pisans in war. The flat
ceiling of the nave, though richly gilded, marred the beauty of the
otherwise noble interior, but the aisles were vaulted. The swaying of
the bronze lamp which hangs in the nave is said to have suggested to
Galileo the idea of the pendulum.
A burial place in Italy, called a _Campo Santo_, is arranged in
the form of a square with covered arcades like the cloisters of
a cathedral, and a sunny, open central space. The one at Pisa is
particularly sacred because the earth in the open court was brought
from Jerusalem. We wandered through these aisles filled with mortuary
marbles and tablets enjoying the reflection of the sunlight falling
through the beautiful tracing of the open, round-arched windows. The
frescoes by Orcagna representing Death and the Last Judgment, were
fascinating from their horrible realistic treatment. The Baptistery,
a circular, dome-crowned building, is a perfect gem inside and out,
exquisitely finished as an ivory toy. There is a wonderful echo here
which comes floating down from the dome like music from an angelic
choir. Two hundred and ninety-four steps lead to the top of the famous
Leaning Tower, and one is repaid for the ascent by a wide outlook
on the Apennines; the city itself through which the Arno winds; the
cluster of fine buildings at the base, and the flashing Mediterranean
six miles distant. And so, closing our eyes repeatedly to see if
we could reproduce in mental vision the picture before us, we bade
farewell to Pisa and are next to be found at Rome.
In order to begin acquaintance with a new city, it is a good plan to
take at the outset what the guide books call an “orientation drive,”
obtaining in this way a general idea of the topography of the city,
a first vivid glance at the buildings, monuments, and ruins, closing
the drive with an outlook over the city from some commanding height.
Starting from the head of the Corso, the principal business street of
Rome, we paused at the column of Marcus Aurelius, then on to the Piazza
Venezia and Trajan’s Forum. At the Roman Forum the nineteenth century
grows dim as the imagination calls up the orators, senators, warriors,
and famous men of old Rome, who once paced among these gray, broken
pillars. Jerusalem and her woes come before us as we reach the Arch
of Titus, and see in bas-relief the pictured story of the capture of
the golden candlestick, the sacred vessels, and the treasures of the
Temple. To this day pious Jews will not pass under this arch. It is
but a step from here to the Colosseum, where again we are reminded of
the overthrow of the Holy City, for this huge amphitheater was built
by the enforced labor of sixty thousand captive Jews. The best piece
of descriptive literature to read here is found in Richter’s Titan.
Past St. John Lateran and S. Maria Maggiore, we drive down the Via
Nazionale, a broad, new street lined with stately marble buildings,
called palaces, in one of which we find most agreeable and healthy
quarters during our stay in Rome. Arriving in front of St. Peter’s, we
can not resist the temptation of entering for a moment. The fountains
were shot through by the brilliant mid-day sunlight as we walked up the
magnificent piazza to the largest and most imposing, if not the most
beautiful, cathedral in the world. One who regards Gothic architecture
as the best expression in stone of religious aspiration, is not likely
to be enthusiastic over St. Peter’s. The proportions are so harmonious
that the vastness of the interior fails to impress the new comer. It
is only by repeated visits, and by studying St. Peter’s in sections,
that one appreciates the size, and comes to discover that modern places
of worship could easily find room in a single arm of this gigantic
cross. Colored glass, instead of these barn-like windows, would be an
improvement, although the broad shafts of white light falling across
the high altar made a fine effect. Priests in black, priests in white,
and rope-girdled monks move noiselessly about. They kneel in the
various chapels: they kiss the well-worn, extended foot of the bronze
statue of St. Peter, and descend to the shrine where, according to
Church tradition, the apostle is actually buried.
Leaving the cathedral, we drive up a pleasant, winding road, past
terraces of century plants and curious cacti, to S. Pietro, in
Montorio, where from the piazza we obtain such an outlook as would
be hard to surpass, embracing the tremendous sweep from St. Peter’s
dome to the flats of the Campagna. All Rome is at our feet. The
Apennines from Soracte to the Alban Mount are bathed in sunlight,
shadow and shower. Historic villages lie along the slopes, nestling in
the valleys, and crowning the hill-tops. The giants of the past move
through the spiritual sky and hover over this ancient city where they
lived, and suffered, and died. The view from the terrace of the Pincian
is justly celebrated, but it does not equal the outlook from this
height.
If one desires to use his time in Rome to the best advantage let
him have nothing to do with half-educated guides, whose information
is often untrustworthy. There are promenade lectures given by
well-informed English archæologists, who have spent years in Rome,
making a special study of the ruins and modern excavations. The
Chautauqua quartette were fortunate in securing the services of Mr. S.
Russell Forbes, whose recent book, entitled “Rambles in Rome,” gains
for him the gratitude of all those who have felt the need of just such
a printed guide. Our first morning was spent at the Roman Forum and
Colosseum, under Mr. Forbes’s delightful leadership. Starting from the
temple of Castor and Pollux we went over the whole ground of the Forum,
pausing before the mound which covers the ashes of the great Cæsar,
seeing the rostrum from which Mark Antony made his funeral oration,
and also the rostrum where Cicero delivered his famous speeches, and
on which, after his assassination, his head and hands were nailed,
“that everybody might see them in the very place where he had formerly
harangued with so much vehemence.” We walked over the identical
pavement used in the days when Rome was mistress of the world, and
saw ruts in the stone made by chariot wheels, when England was but a
barbarous isle. The Flavian Amphitheater, known to us as the Colosseum,
received this name from the colossal statue of Nero, that stood near,
and it was first spoken of in this way by Venerable Bede, of England.
Byron is responsible for the mis-spelling of the word, which he writes
_Coliseum_. Mr. Forbes thinks there is no evidence that Christians
suffered in this arena, with the exception of St. Ignatius, Bishop of
Antioch. The cross which formerly stood in the center is now removed,
and the excavations have revealed three parallel curving walls, which
were put up by the Emperor Commodus, who boasted that he could kill an
hundred lions with as many javelins. Standing in safety on one of these
high walls the beasts were led out to meet the cruel, murderous spears
cast at them with unerring aim by this brutal emperor. From the upper
gallery one can look down on what Richter calls “the crater of this
burnt out volcano” and imagine the vast Amphitheater in the year of its
dedication, A. D. 80, when the games continued for one hundred days,
and 5,000 beasts were slain, while from 80,000 to 100,000 spectators
crowded these now deserted spaces. Visiting the Colosseum by moonlight
a solemn hush broods over the place where was once such abounding,
riotous life, the roar of wounded and infuriated wild beasts, mingling
with the death-groans of gladiators and martyrs. The silence is broken
by the musical monotone of a tolling church bell, suggesting the new
light which had just risen on the world when this amphitheater was
in process of construction, and which has been the chief force in
extinguishing the desire for such brutal and bestial exhibitions.
It is a brilliantly blue morning and the Chautauquans are in high
spirits, for at 10 o’clock they are to start in open carriages, with
Mr. Forbes as guide, for the Appian Way and the Catacombs. They first
visit the baths of Caracalla, which even in ruins give one some
conception of the magnificence of Rome under the Empire. These sunken
mosaic pavements are still beautiful, the vacant niches suggest the
fine works of art that once adorned them, and the grass-grown arches
and walls, over which rooks and jackdaws now fly, speak of the gay
life that once assembled here. It was a vast structure covering a mile
square, and accommodating 1,600 bathers at once. Here were not only
every conceivable kind of bath known to us moderns, but rooms for
games, reading and conversation, each of these most elegantly fitted
up, and on top of all were the gardens. It was a place of fashionable
resort, where the pleasure-loving Romans could spend their days. Built
by the emperor, it was then thrown open free to all, in order to curry
favor with the people.
The Appian Way is lined with temples, villas and tombs. As it was
against the law to bury inside the walls, the ancient Romans were
accustomed to place their dead on either side of the principal roads
leading from the city. At the despoiled tomb of the Scipios we each
of us took a lighted candle and went down into gloomy, subterranean
passages, to see the niches which once held the sarcophagi of Scipio
Barbatus, Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, and other distinguished
members of the Scipio family.—
“The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchers lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers.”
The treasures of this tomb have been carried to the Vatican Museum.
At the Columbaria we walked through blossoming hedges of pink roses
to the great sepulchers for those whose bodies were burned as was
customary during the first centuries of the Christian era, although
even then the distinguished Patrician families followed the ancient
mode of interment. This early cremation did not consume the body to
powder as in our days, but the bones were left and gathered into an
urn. These funeral vases were placed in little niches, resembling the
nests in a modern pigeon-house, and therefore called Columbaria. Here
were placed the remains of the officers of Cæsar’s household—we read
one inscription to the barber of the mighty Julius, and other names
are familiar from St. Paul’s letters. Tryphena, Tryphosa, Onesimus—are
these the funeral urns of the persons mentioned by the apostle? So
our learned guide was inclined to think, and we were well pleased to
believe it possible.
The Catacombs of St. Callixtus was our next stopping place, and here
again we each received a lighted taper, and forming a procession
descended out of the gladsome light of day into the gloomy bowels
of the earth—the burial place, and, as many think, the hiding place
of the first converts to Christianity. We wind in and out a mazy
labyrinth, excavations on either side of us in the soft greenish brown
tufa for graves, one above another, and of irregular size. Many of
these graves were rifled by barbarians for the treasure supposed to
be contained therein. The sarcophagi and slabs have been carried to
museums, especially to the Lateran, where, on another occasion, we
studied the touching inscriptions, some of which were evidently wrought
by affection and not by skilled workmen. Some frescoes remain in the
Catacombs which are interesting from their very rudeness, showing that
the Christians would not employ pagan art for their sacred places.
Coming to the Chapel of the Bishops, we see engraved in beautiful
characters this inscription, put up by Pope Damasus: “Here, if you
would know, lie heaped together a number of the holy. These honored
sepulchers enclose the bodies of the saints, their lofty souls the
palace of heaven has received.... Here lie youths and boys, old men and
their chaste descendants, who kept their virginity undefiled. Here I,
Damasus, wished to have laid my limbs, but feared to disturb the holy
ashes of the saints.” From the chapel a gallery leads to the Crypt
of St. Cecilia. When Paschal I. had the body of this martyred virgin
removed in 820, it was found “fresh and perfect as when it was first
laid in the tomb, and clad in rich garments mixed with gold, with linen
cloths, stained with blood, rolled up at her feet.” Although there are
shafts for ventilation and light, how good it seemed to reach once more
the upper air and the flood of sunlight, and to see the blue sky and
green earth!
On our way to the Three Taverns we pass the tomb of Seneca, the tombs
of the Horatii and the Curatii, and the circular tomb of Cecilia
Metella, on which Paul himself must have looked. We drive under the
Arch of Drusus, which spanned the road in the apostle’s day, and so
came to the Three Taverns, where the brethren met Paul, “whom, when
he saw, he thanked God and took courage.” Crimson-tipped daisies were
blossoming on the site of this famous meeting-place; the afternoon sun
was shining on the Sabine hills and Alban Mount, and a happy lark,
thinking the spring had come in this soft air, warbled to us his divine
melody as our thought took flight across the centuries to that day
when the apostle to the Gentiles paused here on his way to imperial
Rome, where he lost his earthly life, but the message that he brought
conquered Cæsar, and will yet conquer the world.
The festival of All Saints Day came while we were in Rome, and we found
shops and museums more generally closed than on the Christian Sabbath.
Driving to the Capitoline Museum, with Merivale and Suetonius to read
in presence of the portrait busts of the Roman emperors, we found the
doors closed on account of the _festa_, and when we reached St. Luke’s
Academy there was no admission; so we concluded to go with the crowd,
and in the dark, dull and dismal November afternoon we drove to the
Campo Verano, one of the largest cemeteries of Rome. This is the day
that the rich and poor visit their dead, carrying flowers to decorate
the graves. For a mile or more the road was lined with young men and
maidens, old men and children of the middle and poorer classes, who
were walking to the cemetery, carrying wreaths, while the occupants of
elegant private carriages were almost invisible under heaps of choice
flowers. We made slow progress, as the street was blocked with vehicles
and pedestrians, all moving in one direction, while vociferous beggars,
halt, lame, and blind, stretched out their hands, crying lustily for
charity. The walls along the way were covered with wreaths of natural
and artificial flowers, with bead wreaths and wreaths of immortelles
for sale to those who had failed to supply themselves at the outset of
their journey. Leaving our cab at the cemetery gates, we walked through
the covered Campo Santo, in which were many elaborate monuments, and
on most of these there was some likeness of the deceased, either a
portrait in oil, or a bust, or bas-relief in marble. A life-size
sitting figure of a young mother holding her little son in her arms,
who was reaching up to kiss her, was the work of a distinguished
Milanese sculptor in memory of his lost wife and child, and these were
both portraits. Another very touching representation was of a lovely
young woman lying dead on a funeral bier, while her little child was
standing at one side on tip-toe, pulling the drapery of the couch,
as if trying to wake the sleeper. The graves of the poor were simply
marked by a black cross, on which was a number, instead of a name, but
even over these graves a burning lamp was suspended. In the funeral
chapel we heard the distant chanting of invisible monks.
Excursions to Tivoli and to the Alban Mount; sunny afternoons in the
ornamental gardens and park-like enclosures of the villas Borghese
and Albani; drives to the Pincian, where there is music and a gay
moving throng of vehicles and pedestrians; study of ancient art at
the Capitoline Museum and the Vatican; repeated visits to the Sistine
Chapel, where one comes under the spell of Michael Angelo’s mighty
genius; a day’s wandering over the ruined palaces of the Cæsars
on Palatine Hill; a search for the masterpieces of art in churches
and palaces; diligent reading during the evenings of Merivale and
Suetonius, Grimm’s “Michael Angelo” and Hare’s “Walks,” a re-reading of
Hawthorne’s “Marble Faun,” and a dozen lessons in Italian—such were the
absorbing and delightful occupations of the Chautauquans during their
stay in Rome. And now it was time to start for Naples, in order to
catch the next steamer to Alexandria. The statues on St. John Lateran
stood out against the blue sky as we moved out of Rome. The desolate
Campagna; the long, solemn stretch of aqueduct arches; the tombs on
the Appian Way; the sun sinking as a ball of fire; the dome of St.
Peter’s, visible long after the city had been blotted out—these were
our last views of the Eternal City. We arrive in Naples at 11 o’clock,
but there is delay about luggage, and it is midnight when we reach the
Hotel Royal des Etrangers, after a long rattling drive from the railway
station. Stepping out on the balcony, under the clear star-lit heavens,
we see the matchless curve of the Bay of Naples, and Vesuvius sending
its dull, red glare into the holy night. The next morning we take an
early train to Pompeii, and on the journey read Pliny’s description of
the three days of horror in the year 79, when the great eruption of
Vesuvius destroyed Herculaneum and Pompeii. It is a short walk from the
station to the gates of the ruined town, and after escaping from the
importunate beggars, the desolation of these deserted streets is all
the more impressive. Everything seems on a diminutive scale here—the
streets narrow, houses small, and the sleeping apartments no larger
than those on an ocean steamer. The people spent most of their time in
the open courts, which were surrounded by covered arcades and were a
necessary part of every dwelling. Comparatively few of the adornments
of these Pompeiian homes remain _in situ_, the choicest specimens
of art found here have been carried off to the museums. A fountain
in the court, a mutilated statue, a broken pillar, a bit of mosaic
pavement, a partially obliterated fresco-painting are all that remain
to tell of the beauty of the city so suddenly buried, with 2,000 of
its inhabitants, under twenty feet of ashes and lava. One of the most
interesting spots was where the Roman soldier was discovered, grasping
his spear and remaining faithful to his post, although he might well
have supposed that the last great day had come. In the museum at
Pompeii the most striking and interesting objects are casts of eight
human corpses, and one of the body of a dog, fearfully twisted and
contorted in the final death agony. The casts were obtained in 1863, by
an ingenious experiment made by Signor Fiorelli, the present director
of the excavations. While the soft parts of the bodies had decayed,
their forms frequently remained imprinted on the ashes, which afterward
hardened. The bones of a body thus imbedded were carefully removed and
the cavity filled with plaster, and thus the figures and attitudes of
the poor creatures in the death struggle have been preserved.
On the third day after our arrival in Naples we set sail for
Alexandria. The soft, bright skies of Southern Italy smile on us as
we stand on the rear deck of the French steamer “Mendoza,” looking
back at Naples as we slowly move down the bay, Vesuvius every now and
then sending out a solemn, thunderous boom. We read with delight and
amazement Richter’s marvelous word paintings in “Titan” of places which
he never saw but with the mind’s eye. We sail out of the two encircling
arms which are thrust into the blue waters, Ischia and Pozzuoli, the
modern name for Puteoli, on the one side, Castellamare and Sorrento on
the other. The rocky island of Capri is passed; we peer along the shore
of the Gulf of Salerno hoping to get a glimpse of Pæstum and its famous
temple, and on we go, the white gulls following us into the open sea.
As a preparation for Alexandria we read Ebers’s “Egyptian Princess,”
and like true Chautauquans re-read Charles Kingsley’s “Hypatia.” We are
so unfortunate as to arrive at the end of our voyage just after dusk,
and although the lights of the city are in view, we are forced to cast
anchor and remain on shipboard another night. As the twilight falls
upon us, the great spirits of the past begin to loom up in the sky—the
Cæsars and Ptolemies; Pompey and Antony’s fascinator, Cleopatra;
Euclid and Theocritus; Cyril and Apollos; the early Christian Church
struggling with Greek learning and Jewish prejudice. Such is the
atmosphere of the early ages of this ancient city. Under the Ptolemies
and the Cæsars, Alexandria was a world-renowned city of 500,000 souls,
adorned with the arts of Greece and the wealth of Egypt, while its
schools of learning far outshone all those of the more ancient cities.
At the beginning of the third century it began to wane and from the
time it was taken by Omar in A. D. 641, its commerce and importance
sunk rapidly. The discovery of the route to India by the Cape of Good
Hope completed its ruin.
Anchoring outside the quay we were quickly surrounded by a crowd of
row-boats, with black-faced sailors in a picturesque costume of white
full trowsers, with red jackets and sashes, and red and white turbans.
These boats brought to our ship several visitors, who came to meet
their friends, and it was amusing to see the Oriental salutations and
effusiveness. In our drive of two hours, strange sights met us at every
turn, and the street scenes were most curious and interesting. The
veiled women, with their black, flashing, restless eyes; their flowing
robes of black or blue or white, and their stately gait, made one long
to see their entire countenance and to know what is their manner of
life. There is every variety of color here, from the intense black of
the Nubian to the delicate yellow tinge of the Octoroon. Some of the
children’s faces were attractive, but most of the old faces were so
haggard and evil that it was painful to catch a glimpse of them. Groves
of the date palm, the luscious, freshly-picked fruit of which seemed
to us far more tempting than the leeks and onions after which the
children of Israel lusted; donkeys, carrying their riders far back on
their haunches, and pursued by runners who give the poor animal a shove
when he slackens speed; camels, with their slow gait and quizzical
expression, as much as to say, “Don’t you think I’m handsome? Isn’t
life a great joke?”; merchants, sitting calmly in their booths, smoking
their nargilehs with the utmost unconcern as to custom—these were a few
of a multitude of objects new and striking that attracted our attention.
Pompey’s Pillar is a solid shaft of polished red syenite, which
resembles Scotch granite, and placed on an eminence lifts itself
grandly against the deep blue of the sky. But it was erected in
Diocletian’s time, and that seems quite modern here. The Pasha’s palace
and harem are of stucco, and far from being impressive or elegant. We
drove through the grounds, which have a fountain in the center, a few
sickly looking plants, and a fine view of the sea.
Shepheard’s hotel in Cairo has been for many years the favorite
stopping place of English travelers, and one finds here a degree of
comfort and cleanliness not often to be met in this part of the world.
Here the English language is spoken by all the servants, and, although
our method of summoning a waiter is unknown, the Oriental fashion of
clapping the hands is quite as effective. Mounted on donkeys we rode
to the museum at Boulak, where are to be found the best specimens of
Egyptian ancient art. Massive and grand are some of these sitting
figures of kings who reigned thousands of years ago. One, with the
body of a sphinx, is said to represent the Pharaoh under whom Joseph
attained power and position in Egypt. Exquisitely wrought and polished
are these black granite statues, but there is no soul in the stone.
The royal mummies recently found near Thebes are here, and we saw these
hoar monarchs as they lay in their varnished and hieroglyph-inscribed
coffins of sycamore wood, wrapped in the shrouds of fine linen in
which their embalmers had enswathed them, wearing on their faces their
sharp-cut and life-like effigies, encircled with the flowers and
garlands which had been placed there by the hands of mourners over
three thousand years ago. Rameses II., the Pharaoh of the Bondage
lay, holding in his right hand, appropriately and significantly, a
scourge of four cords. He was the only one of the royal group who bore
this emblem. Here, too, is Thothmes III., that Pharaoh who ordered
the construction of the obelisks, one of which stands on the Thames
embankment, and the other in our own New York. In another case lies the
second king of the nineteenth dynasty, who occupied the throne during
the grandest era of Egyptian history. He was the builder of the “Hall
of Columns,” at Karnac, the most magnificent temple in all Egypt, and
one of the ten or twelve architectural wonders of the world. It is a
significant fact that Menephtâh, the son and successor of the Pharaoh
of the Bondage, is not in the group. The question which naturally rises
to the Biblical student is, “Are we to seek for him in the Red Sea?”
Starting one bright morning at 7 o’clock in an open barouche, with
Jūseph Hakè as dragoman, a tall stately Egyptian as coachman, with
the imperial buttons on his coat, for he was formerly in the service
of Ismail Pasha, and an Arab runner to clear the passage through the
narrow and crowded Cairo streets, we drove in the fresh morning air
over the arched stone bridges of the Nile, with their bronze lions,
the gift of France, and on smooth, straight avenues lined with lebeck
trees, until we had accomplished the ten miles which lie between Cairo
and the Pyramids. Barricades of corn-husks enclosing heaps of yellow
corn, and the busy, dark-skinned huskers were a noticeable feature by
the roadside. We could not look at a child without his little hand was
extended with the call for _backsheesh_, and sometimes our carriage
was followed by half a dozen girls and boys whose cries, when they got
short of breath in running, would be simply “’sheesh, ’sheesh.” Our
first view of the Pyramids of Gheezeh was over the lebeck trees and
corn-husks, and they seemed close at hand, although then five miles
away. Among the three pyramids of Gheezeh the pyramid of Cheops, or the
“Great Pyramid,” is by far the most important. It is _the_ pyramid as
the mysterious Sphinx at its base is _the_ sphinx. It is probably the
oldest, and certainly the largest building in the world. Egyptologists
differ widely in their chronology. Mariette puts the building of
Cheops’s pyramid back to B. C. 4235, Brugsch to B. C. 3733, while
Piazzi Smyth places it in the age of Abraham and Melchisedek, B. C.
2170.
As soon as we left our carriage we were approached by the sheik of the
village and a dozen swarthy Arabs, who, with their usual vociferous
volubility, tried to prove that we, each of us, needed three men to
help us up the pyramid. One took hold of each hand, and the other
pushed and lifted us on the highest stones of this rough staircase.
Pausing frequently for breath, we consumed three-quarters of an hour in
the ascent, but the summit reached, one speedily forgets the physical
effort required in the grand, solemn, far-reaching prospect over green
plain and sandy desert—the living and the dead. Far away on the horizon
line of the desert appear the sharp outlines of ten or twelve pyramids.
Near us is a pyramid almost as large as the one on which we stand, the
smooth casing still remaining on the top, and making that portion of
it inaccessible. Clearly defined is the line of verdure which marks
the overflow of the river. From June to October this broad plain is
inundated to the depth of from ten to fifteen feet. This remarkable
rise of the Nile waters is occasioned by the tropical rains, and the
melting of the snows on the high mountain ranges at the equator. The
rise and the retreat are equally rapid. In May the volume of its waters
is only one-twentieth of that in October. The eternal youth of Nature,
“as fresh as on creation’s morn,” and the hoary past contrast here most
vividly. Where are they who planned and reared these mighty monuments?
Gone and forgotten as we too shall be. The Arabs sat by themselves and
chattered in low tones when they saw we wanted to be alone, but now and
then they would gather around us like children, asking in very good
English all sorts of questions, some in regard to America, its extent,
climate, the cost of getting there, and prices paid to a laboring man.
The dark, slippery, suffocating, steep slope which leads to the King’s
Chamber is a much more trying journey than that to the summit, and yet
one can hardly understand the Pyramids without exploring this interior
room, which contains nothing but an empty stone sarcophagus. Over
this rifled coffin we repeated that portion of the fifteenth of 1st
Corinthians, which relates to the resurrection, while the four Arabs
held the candles in perfect silence, and looked into our faces with a
kind of wondering awe.
After a bountiful lunch in our carriage, we walked to the Sphinx, and
saw that face, sadly mutilated now, but still with an expression of
cheerful courage, which has looked across these dreary wastes under the
midnights and the noons, while men have come and gone like shadows, and
kingdoms have been born and fallen to decay. The body of the Sphinx is
the natural rock, here and there adapted by a little carving, or the
addition of masonry, and is one hundred and forty feet in length. The
head is carved out of the solid rock, and measures thirty feet from
brow to chin, and fourteen feet across. The Sphinx is merely a ruin
of what he was when sacrifices were offered on the altar between his
lion paws of fifty feet in length. And yet he makes an overpowering
impression of majestic repose, and is worthy of the name given him by
the Arabs—the Father of Terror, or Immensity.
[To be continued.]