Grief and Despair.—Describes his Feelings.—Failing
Health.—Severe Mental Labor.—Decides to go to Africa.—Visits
Vienna.—Arrival at Alexandria.—Sails up the Nile.—Scenes
in Cairo.—The Pyramids.—The Lovely Nile.—An Important and
Pleasant Acquaintance.—A Lasting Friendship.—Learning the
Language.—Assuming the Costume.—Sights by the Way.
The great grief which Mr. Taylor felt when his wife died, was so deep
and keen that he was for many months unreconciled, and in a mental state
somewhat akin to despair. His appearance among his friends, whether at
Kennett or in the office of the “Tribune” at New York, did not, however,
betray his feelings so much as his private correspondence and occasional
poems. He was the sincerest of mourners; and his natural susceptibility
to every shade of emotion made this severe bereavement an occasion of
untold suffering. In his endeavors to banish the gloomy spectre, he
resorted to hard work. Hence, the first half of the year 1851 was one of
the busiest seasons of his life. He wrote early and late. He composed
poems and essays, wrote editorials, and edited correspondence, some of
it being the labor attached to his profession, but a great share of it
written to occupy his mind and shut out his affliction.
His “Rhymes of Travel,” which had been published after his return from
California, called the attention of the reading public to him as a poet,
and there was a strong demand for another volume. His friends urged him
to write, his uneasy heart pushed him into work, and the newspapers kept
questioning him about the advent of a second volume, until he decided
to bring out his book of “Romances, Lyrics, and Songs.” There was one
poem in that volume which was very sweet when wholly disconnected with
history, but which becomes fascinating and sad as Milton’s lament for his
eyesight, when we once know the circumstances and the mental condition in
which it was written. Two verses of that poem were printed, as follows:—
“Give me music, sad and strong,
Drawn from deeper founts than song;
More impassioned, full, and free,
Than the poet’s numbers be:
Music which can master thee,
Stern enchantress, Memory!
Piercing through the gloomy stress
Of thy gathered bitterness,
As the summer lightnings play
Through a cloud’s edge far away.
Give me music; I am dumb;
Choked with tears that never come;
Give me music; sigh or word
Such a sorrow never stirred,—
Sorrow that with blinding pain
Lies like fire on heart and brain.
Earth and heaven bring no relief,
I am dumb; this weight of grief
Locks my lips; I cannot cry:
Give me music, or I die.”
It was then that he wrote those pathetic lines, so full of his sadness
and so descriptive of his bereavement, that he was never satisfied with a
name for them and finally left them without a title, the first couplet of
which sufficiently indicates the tenor,—
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall, thou drear December rain!”
Such a sorrowful heart and such an overworked brain were too great a
load for one human body to carry. His physical strength had never been
remarkable, and there had been seasons before his visit to Europe when
his health seemed permanently impaired. So when this great strain was
made upon his system it began to weaken. To continue the effort was
suicidal, and stoutly condemned by his relatives and friends. He then
recalled his exhilarating walks among the Alps and on the plains of
Europe. He kindled anew his zeal for adventure. He studied the map
of the world to decide where was presented the most favorable field
for discovery. He wished for rest from sorrow, and rest from close
application to literary work. Such a relief could only be found in a
climate and among a people wholly different from his own. In this choice
he was guided somewhat by a fortunate opportunity to cross the Atlantic
as a guest and friend, and by the accounts which a literary companion in
the office of the “Tribune” gave of the interesting people and scenery
along the coast of Palestine and Greece.
The winter had passed and the soothing winds of summer seemed so
grateful and necessary, that he decided to pass the next winter on
the Mediterranean, should his health admit of the necessary outlay of
strength. In writing about that undertaking afterwards, he said a trip
into Africa would furnish good material for a travelling correspondent
and hence that continent was selected. “But,” he said, “there were
other influences acting upon me which I did not fully comprehend at the
time, and cannot now describe without going too deeply into matters of
private history.” But while in Central Africa, enjoying the invigorating
breezes along the Nile, he reveals a part of that private history by
an incidental exclamation published in a letter to the “Tribune.” “Oh!
what a rest is this from the tantalizing and sorrowful suggestions of
civilization.” He fled from sorrow—driven into the desert.
Having reached Smyrna, on the coast of Asia Minor, by the overland
route to Constantinople _via_ Vienna, he re-embarked at that port for
Alexandria in Egypt, arriving at the latter place Nov. 1, 1851. We shall
not attempt here to give in any satisfactory detail the record of his
wanderings in Africa, as they are so charmingly and instructively told
in the book which he wrote concerning them, and as no book of travel in
Egypt, except a scientific work, can supplant or equal the many which
already honor our shelves. The writer having been over a large portion
of Mr. Taylor’s routes, and feeling much indebted to him for his
works, which were often used as guides, has perhaps a greater interest
in recording his travels, than the reader would have in going through
the story a second time. Hence, for the purposes of this outline sketch
of Mr. Taylor’s life, we shall introduce only such incidents and facts
connected with his wanderings as appear to have some direct or unusual
bearing upon his character, or which display some peculiarity of his
genius or taste.
He said, in a letter to a friend in New York, that he “owed a debt
of gratitude” to the Providence which led him, to the country which
attracted him, and to the vessel which carried him from Smyrna to
Alexandria. That sentiment was awakened in his heart by the way in which
some of the important events in his after life pointed back to that trip
and to the valuable friend he met there. Mr. Taylor was of a genial,
approachable nature, and easily made the acquaintance of any person whom
he met. But having German blood in his veins, loving the German language,
and entertaining a sincere respect for German literature, he naturally
sought the company of the German people. On the very threshold of this
trip into Africa he made the acquaintance of a German gentleman, whose
culture and geniality made him a great acquisition in a strange land.
They seem to have taken a deep interest in each other from the first
time they met. It may be because their condition in life, socially and
circumstantially, was so similar; but the more reasonable explanation is
found in their similar tastes and equal regard for the works of genius
and the beauties of nature. It will be like a romance, when told in all
its detail, as it might be now, and will be when the present generation
passes away. How little could his human understanding comprehend the
great results turning upon the simple, common-place self-introduction
to a German travelling companion! This friend, whom he met, and with
whom he made the journey up to the cataracts of the Nile, was perhaps
as remarkable a man as Taylor, and belonged to a family of scholars
and long respected agricultural citizens of the German principality of
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.
The chief merit of Mr. Taylor’s descriptions lay in their apparent
frankness and their charming details. He appeared to think that every
reader was acquainted with the works of those great archæologists,
Lepsius and Champollion, and did not attempt to supply to his readers the
information they had already given. He seems to have imagined that all
the reading public wished to follow him, and he gave such information
as the tourist would need. He told about the clothes he purchased in
Alexandria, about the fit of his Arab attire, about the cost of a dinner,
the conversation between dragomen and boatmen, the personal appearance of
his companions, the faithlessness of his guide, the dirty appearance of
his boat, and the gorgeous sunset. He described his own sensations and
actions with the boldness of one unconscious of any motive to conceal or
deceive. He reveals the sorrow of his heart by occasional remarks such as
these: “For many months past I had known no mood of mind so peaceful and
grateful.”—“I am away from reminders of sorrow.”—“It is not the beauty of
the desert that gratifies me so much, in these days, after all, as the
absence of civilization.”
The party, which consisted of Mr. Taylor, the German companion, and an
Italian, engaged one of the Nile boats, at Alexandria, for the trip up
the Nile, and after testing the comforts, or misery, of the Egyptian
hotels, seeing Cleopatra’s Needle (now in London) and Pompey’s Pillar,
which were then as in later years about all that there was to be seen
of interest in Alexandria, they started on their lazy voyage up the
wonderful Nile. He wrote with great enthusiasm of the sweet rest he found
in a pipe of tobacco, after the manner of all habitual smokers. He seems
to have had plenty of time to muse and smoke as he slowly ascended the
stream. It has often been a subject of wonder that he could afterwards
remember so many incidents and the impressions they had made on him, when
perhaps weeks of time and some more exciting transactions had intervened.
But Mr. Taylor did not wait long before recording his ideas and comments,
and was in the habit of keeping a memoranda-book always at hand, and
while travelling, noted with a pencil any peculiar thought or incident
which awakened attention.
At Atfeh, which has been for hundreds of years an intermediate
stopping-place on the highway and river between Alexandria and Cairo,
he clambered up into the town and witnessed a marriage procession. He
appears to have been inclined to get a near view of the bride; but the
relatives hurried her off, and with cries and threatening gestures drove
him back to cover. But he decided that if he could not see the bride, he
would do the next best thing, and accordingly visited her father. The
disconsolate parent was being comforted by a hoarse chant and appeared to
be as cheerful as could be expected considering the din.
At the town of Nadir he went into a low mud hut, which pretended to be
a cafe, and there saw the Egyptian fandango danced by the inmates. He
records the shape and sound of the musical instruments and with polished
and concise language pictured the scene to the reader’s eye. This, with
the accounts of the improvements, rates of toll, and the manner of
passing the boats by locks, and government officials, with many minor
details is told in a manner which, notwithstanding the dryness of the
subject, makes most fascinating reading.
But he counted his entrance into Cairo, the capital of Egypt, as the
actual beginning of his tour into Africa. For at Alexandria and along
the Nile as far as Bourak the people exhibited some traits which connect
them with the civilized West. But Cairo is wholly Egyptian. The centuries
have made no apparent changes in the people. The donkeys, the veiled
women, the fierce Arabs, the water-skins, the fountains, the slaves,
the palms, the white domes, and the low shops revive the historical
associations and personify the Past. Like an oasis in the adjacent
desert was the Hotel d’Europe. But it served to impress the reality of
these surroundings more forcibly upon the travellers. With a readiness
and enjoyment which his companions did not share, he accustomed himself
to the manners and appearance of the people, and it was scarcely a day
before Mr. Taylor would smoke his perfumed chibouk, sit cross-legged,
and eat with his fingers like a native Arab. He rode the little donkeys
as well as any citizen of Cairo, and was even more reckless than they,
if that were possible, as he rode through the market-places at a furious
speed. The Egyptians, like the Germans, Italians, French, Hungarians,
and Syrians, felt a kind of fellowship for Mr. Taylor, and admired his
good-sense in appreciating and adopting so many of their customs. He was
the acquaintance and confidential friend of a dozen old Arabs before he
had been two days in Cairo. He was a lover of mankind. He sympathized
with them all. As the Shereef of Mecca rides by, Mr. Taylor admires his
dignity and his imposing retinue. As a marriage procession files through
the streets, he comments on the playing of the flutes, the crimson robes
of the bride, and the diadem, with the simplicity of a country maiden in
America. He enjoys the athletic tricks of the showmen, the skill of the
swordsmen, the voices of the singers, the zeal of the beggars, and the
endurance of the laborers. He is one of the same human family. They know
it, and feel it, and he is welcome.
The German acquaintance, who had not intended to go farther than Cairo,
was so delighted with Mr. Taylor’s companionship and Mr. Taylor was so
interested in him, that he decided to go up the Nile as far as Assouan,
which was on the border of the Central African countries. Mr. Taylor
speaks with sentiments of enthusiastic thankfulness of his good fortune
in thus securing a travelling companion, whose tastes and sentiments were
so akin to his own. He little thought then, that while trying to shut
out his sorrow by voluntary exile, he was opening the door to a second
love. Mr. Taylor’s singular admiration and love for his companion is
almost unaccountable, unless we adopt some theory of foreordination or
providential design.
A most interesting, amusing, and friendly trip they had up the stream,
for thousands of years so historic, in a boat manned by ten boatmen,
and of which they were the commanders. Neither of them had ever been
in Egypt before, but their maps and guide-books, coupled with their
early historical training, made the localities along their route seem
more familiar to them than to the dragomen, who made it a business to
guide travellers. They named their boat the “Cleopatra,” ran up the
Stars and Stripes to the peak, and, with contented minds but active
brains, enjoyed to the full the strange scenes and historic ruins which
showed themselves on every hand. They first visited the Pyramids,
where Mr. Taylor gratified his taste for climbing heights, and nearly
killed himself by rushing down. With characteristic regard for those
who were to come after him, Mr. Taylor rebuked the importunities of the
backsheesh-loving Arabs about the Pyramids, and obtaining no satisfaction
from them, he reported them to the chief, who compelled the greedy
desperadoes to submit to a severe whipping.
They visited ancient Memphis, which the French explorer, Mariette, was
then exhuming, and trod the pavements over which had passed the feet
of Menes, Amasis, Pharaoh, Strabo, and Cambyses. They were hospitably
entertained by the great antiquarian, and felt that such a visit was
ample reward for all their outlay. From Memphis they proceeded to Siout,
and on the way talked, composed, and sung the praises of Father Nile.
It may be that Mr. Taylor’s mood, which he so often mentions, had an
influence upon his taste, or it may be that the season was one peculiarly
adapted to the exhibition of beauty in the Nile, but the writer, in a
later year, was not so charmed by the scenery and river as Mr. Taylor
appears to have been. No other traveller has written such glowing
encomiums upon the Nile as Mr. Taylor recorded in his letters, and either
he appreciated nature more than other travellers, or there was something
in his circumstances which placed a halo of beauty about the palms and
meadows. In the “Nilotic Drinking-Song” Mr. Taylor said:—
“Cloud never gave birth, nor cradle the Earth,
To river so grand and fair as this is:
Not the waves that roll us the gold of Pactolus,
Nor cool Cephissus, nor classic Ilissus.
The lily may dip
Her ivory lip,
To kiss the ripples of clear Eurotas;
But the Nile brings balm
From the myrr and palm,
And the ripe, voluptuous lips of the lotus.
The waves that ride on his mighty tide
Were poured from the urns of unvisited mountains;
And their sweets of the South mingle cool in the mouth,
With the freshness and sparkle of Northern fountains.
Again and again
The goblet we drain—
Diviner a stream never Nereid swam on:
For Isis and Orus
Have quaffed before us,
And Ganymede dipped it for Jupiter Ammon.”
His admiration was not spasmodic, for he always mentioned the Nile as
the most majestic of rivers. To the majority of travellers, however, the
hoary ruins of mighty cities, the tombs of priests, and the pyramids of
kings are so much more exciting and mysterious, that the Nile is itself
of secondary importance.
Yet, Mr. Taylor, with all his interest in the river, did not have
less in the celebrated localities and ancient remains. He ascended
many honeycombed mountains, to creep among the bones of men who lived
thirty-five hundred years ago. He gazed with a yearning interest upon the
broken columns of unknown temples, and dreamed of their former grandeur,
while apathetically overseeing the affairs of his little monarchy over
which he kept floating the Stars and Stripes. He became so absorbed
in the climate, the people, and the history of the land, that he soon
adopted the full costume of the country and became henceforth an Arab
with the others. He was marvellously quick in picking up the words and
phrases of any language, and soon, with the aid of a small phrase-book,
he could readily converse with the natives along the shore. These
characteristics made it safe and pleasant for him to travel where many
others would have found only misery and death.