THE ancient Egyptians of the Upper Country excavated sepulchres for
their great dead in the solid rocks of the mountain; the dwellers in
the lower country built a mountain of stone in which to hide the royal
mummy. In the necropolis at Thebes there are the vast rock-tombs of
the kings; at Sakkara and Geezeh stand the Pyramids. On the upper Nile
isolated rocks and mountains cut the sky in pyramidal forms; on the
lower Nile the mountain ranges run level along the horizon, and the
constructed pyramids relieve the horizontal lines which are otherwise
unbroken except by the palms.
The rock-tombs were walled up and their entrances concealed as much as
possible, by a natural arrangement of masses of rock; the pyramids were
completely encased and the openings perfectly masked. False passages,
leading through gorgeously carved and decorated halls and chambers to
an empty pit or a blind wall, were hewn in the rock-tombs, simply to
mislead the violator of the repose of the dead as to the position of the
mummy. The entrance to the pyramids is placed away from the center, and
misleading passages run from it, conducting the explorer away from the
royal sarcophagus. Rock-tomb and pyramid were for the same purpose, the
eternal security of the mummy.
That purpose has failed; the burial-place was on too grand a scale, its
contents were too tempting. There is no security for any one after death
but obscurity; to preserve one's body is to lose it. The bones must
be consumed if they would be safe, or else the owner of them must be a
patriot and gain a forgotten grave. There is nothing that men so enjoy
as digging up the bones of their ancestors. It is doubtful if even
the Egyptian plunderers left long undisturbed the great tombs which
contained so much treasure; and certainly the Persians, the Greeks,
the Romans, the Saracens, left comparatively little for the scientific
grave-robbers of our excellent age. They did, however, leave the
tombs, the sarcophagi, most of the sculptures, and a fair share of the
preserved dead.
But time made a pretty clean sweep of the mummy and nearly all his
personal and real property. The best sculptures of his tomb might
legally be considered in the nature of improvements attaching themselves
to the realty, but our scientists have hacked them off and carried them
away as if they were personal estate. We call the Arabs thieves and
ghouls who prowl in the the tombs in search of valuables. But motive is
everything; digging up the dead and taking his property, tomb and
all, in the name of learning and investigation is respectable and
commendable. It comes to the same thing for the mummy, however, this
being turned out of house and home in his old age. The deed has its
comic aspect, and it seems to me that if a mummy has any humor left in
his dried body, he must smile to see what a ludicrous failure were his
costly efforts at concealment and repose. For there is a point where
frustration of plans may be so sweeping as to be amusing; just as the
mummy himself is so ghastly that his aspect is almost funny.
Nothing more impresses the mind with the antiquity of Egypt than its
vast cemeteries, into which the harvests of the dead have been gathered
for so many thousands of years. Of old Memphis, indeed, nothing remains
except its necropolis, whose monuments have outlasted the palaces and
temples that were the wonder of the world. The magnificence of the city
can be estimated by the extent of its burial-ground.
On the west side of the Nile, opposite Cairo, and extending south along
the edge of the desert, is a nearly continuous necropolis for fifteen
miles. It is marked at intervals by pyramids. At Geezeh are three large
and several small ones; at Abooseer are four; at Sakkara are eleven; at
Dashoor are four. These all belonged to the necropolis of Memphis. At
Geezeh is the largest, that of Cheops or Shoofoo, the third king of the
fourth dynasty, reigning at Memphis about 4235 B.C., according to the
chronology of Mariette Bey, which every new discovery helps to establish
as the most probably correct. This pyramid was about four hundred and
eighty feet high, and the length of a side of its base was about seven
hundred and sixty-four feet; it is now four hundred and fifty feet high
and its base line is seven hundred and forty-six feet. It is big enough
yet for any practical purpose. The old pyramid at Sakkara is believed to
have been built by Ouenephes, the fourth king of the first dynasty,
and to be the oldest monument in the world. Like the mounds of the
Chaldeans, it is built in degrees or stages, of which there are five.
Degraded now and buried at the base in its own rubbish, it rises only
about one hundred and ninety feet above the ground.
It is a drive of two hours from Cairo to the Pyramids of Geezeh, over
a very good road; and we are advised to go by carriage. Hadji is on the
seat with the driver, keeping his single twinkling eye active in the
service of the howadji. The driver is a polished Nubian, with a white
turban and a white gown; feet and legs go bare. You wouldn't call it
a stylish turnout for the Bois, but it would be all right if we had a
gorgeous sais to attract attention from ourselves.
We drive through the wide and dusty streets of the new quarter. The
barrack-like palace, on the left of abroad place, is the one in which
the Khedive is staying just now, though he may be in another one
to-night. The streets are the same animated theater-like scenes of vivid
color and picturesque costume and indolent waiting on Providence to
which we thought we should never become accustomed, but which are
already beginning to lose their novelty. The fellaheen are coming in to
market, trudging along behind donkeys and camels loaded with vegetables
or freshly cut grass and beans for fodder. Squads of soldiers in white
uniform pass; bugle notes are heard from Kasr e' Neel, a barrack
of troops on the river. Here, as in Europe, the great business most
seriously pursued is the drilling of men to stand straight, handle arms,
roll their eyes, march with a thousand legs moving as one, and shoot on
sight other human beings who have learned the same tricks. God help us,
it is a pitiful thing for civilized people.
The banks of the Nile here above Boolak are high and steep. We cross
the river on a fine bridge of iron, and drive over the level plain,
opposite, on a raised and winding embankment. This is planted on each
side with lebbekh and sycamore trees. Part of the way the trees are
large and the shade ample; the roots going down into moist ground. Much
of the way the trees are small and kept alive by constant watering. On
the right, by a noble avenue are approached the gardens and the palace
of Gezeereh. We pass by the new summer palace of Geezeh. Other large
ones are in process of construction. If the viceroy is measured for a
new suit of clothes as often as he orders a new palace, his tailors must
be kept busy. Through the trees we see green fields, intersected with
ditches, wheat, barley, and beans, the latter broad-sown and growing
two to three feet high; here and there are lines of palms, clumps of
acacias; peasants are at work or asleep in the shade; there are trains
of camels, and men plowing with cows or buffaloes. Leaving the squalid
huts that are the remains of once beautiful Geezeh, the embankment
strides straight across the level country.
And there before us, on a rocky platform a hundred feet higher than the
meadows, are the pyramids, cutting the stainless blue of the sky with
their sharp lines. They master the eye when we are an hour away, and as
we approach they seem to recede, neither growing larger nor smaller, but
simply withdrawing with a grand reserve.
I suppose there are more “emotions” afloat about the pyramids than
concerning any other artificial' objects. There are enough. It becomes
constantly more and more difficult for the ordinary traveler to rise to
the height of these accumulated emotions, and it is entirely impossible
to say how much the excitement one experiences on drawing near them
results from reading and association, and how much is due to these
simple forms in such desolate surroundings. But there they stand,
enduring standards, and every visitor seems inclined to measure his own
height by their vastness, in telling what impression they produce upon
him. They have been treated sentimentally, off-handedly, mathematically,
solemnly, historically, humorously. They yield to no sort of treatment.
They are nothing but piles of stone, and shabby piles at that, and they
stand there to astonish people. Mr. Bayard Taylor is entirely right
when he says that the pyramids are and will remain unchanged and
unapproachably impressive however modern life may surge about them, and
though a city should creep about their bases.
Perhaps they do not appear so gigantic when the visitor is close to them
as he thought they would from their mass at a distance. But if he stands
at the base of the great pyramid, and casts his eye along the steps
of its enormous side and up the dizzy height where the summit seems to
pierce the solid blue, he will not complain of want of size. And if he
walks around one, and walks from one to another wading in the loose sand
and under a midday sun, his respect for the pyramids will increase every
moment.
Long before we reach the ascent of the platform we are met by Arab
boys and men, sellers of antiquities, and most persistent beggars. The
antiquities are images of all sorts, of gods, beasts, and birds, in
pottery or in bronze, articles from tombs, bits of mummy-cloth, beads
and scarabæi, and Roman copper coins; all of them at least five thousand
years old in appearance.
Our carriage is stuck in the sand, and we walk a quarter of a mile up
the platform, attended by a rabble of coaxing, imploring, importunate,
half-clad Bedaween. “Look a here, you take dis; dis ver much old, he
from mummy; see here, I get him in tomb; one shillin; in Cairo you get
him one pound; ver sheap. You no like? No anteeka, no money. How much?”
“One penny.”
“Ah,” ironically, “ket'-ther khâyrak (much obliged). You take him
sixpence. Howadji, say, me guide, you want go top pyramid, go inside, go
Sphinkee, allée tomba?”
Surrounded by an increasing swarm of guides and antiquity-hawkers, and
beset with offers, entreaties, and opportunities, we come face to face
with the great pyramid. The ground in front of it is piled high with its
debris. Upon these rocks, in picturesque attitudes, some in the shade
and some in the sun, others of the tribe are waiting the arrival of
pyramid climbers; in the intense light their cotton garments and turbans
are like white paint, brilliant in the sun, ashy in the shadow. All
the shadows are sharp and deep. A dark man leaning on his spear at the
corner of the pyramid makes a picture. At a kiosk near by carriages are
standing and visitors are taking their lunch. But men, carriages, kiosk,
are dwarfed in this great presence. It is, as I said, a shabby pile of
stone, and its beauty is only that of mathematical angles; but then
it is so big, it casts such a shadow; we all beside it are like the
animated lines and dots which represent human beings in the etchings of
Callot.
To be rid of importunities we send for the sheykh of the pyramid tribe.
The Bedaween living here have a sort of ownership of these monuments,
and very good property they are. The tribe supports itself mainly by
tolls levied upon visitors. The sheykh assigns guides and climbers, and
receives the pay for their services. This money is divided among the
families; but what individuals get as backsheesh or by the sale
of antiquities, they keep. They live near by, in huts scarcely
distinguishable from the rocks, many of them in vacant tombs, and some
have shanties on the borders of the green land. Most of them have
the appearance of wretched poverty, and villainous faces abound. But
handsome, intelligent faces and finely developed forms are not rare,
either.
The Sheykh, venerable as Jacob, respectable as a New England deacon,
suave and polite as he traditionally should be, wears a scarf of camel's
hair and a bright yellow and black kuffia, put on like a hood, fastened
about the head by a cord and falling over the shoulders. He apportioned
his guides to take us up the pyramid and to accompany us inside. I had
already sent for a guide who had been recommended to me in the city,
and I found Ali Gobree the frank, manly, intelligent, quiet man I had
expected, handsome also, and honesty and sincerity beaming from his
countenance. How well-bred he was, and how well he spoke English. Two
other men were given me; for the established order is that two shall
pull and one shall push the visitor up. And it is easier to submit
to the regulation than to attempt to go alone and be followed by an
importunate crowd.
I am aware that every one who writes of the pyramids is expected to make
a scene of the ascent, but if I were to romance I would rather do it in
a fresher field. The fact is that the ascent is not difficult, unless
the person is very weak in the legs or attempts to carry in front of
himself a preposterous stomach. There is no difficulty in going alone;
occasionally the climber encounters a step from three to four feet high,
but he can always flank it. Of course it is tiresome to go up-stairs,
and the great pyramid needs an “elevator”; but a person may leisurely
zig-zag up the side without great fatigue. We went straight up at one
corner; the guides insisting on taking me by the hand; the boosting Arab
who came behind earned his money by grunting every time we reached a
high step, but he didn't lift a pound.
We stopped frequently to look down and to measure with the eye the mass
on the surface of which we were like flies. When we were a third of the
way up, and turned from the edge to the middle, the height to be climbed
seemed as great as when we started. I should think that a giddy person
might have unpleasant sensations in looking back along the corner and
seeing no resting-place down the sharp edges of the steps short of the
bottom, if he should fall. We measure our ascent by the diminishing size
of the people below, and by the widening of the prospect. The guides are
perfectly civil, they do not threaten to throw us off, nor do they even
mention backsheesh. Stopping to pick out shells from the nummulitic
limestone blocks or to try our glasses on some distant object, we come
easily to the summit in a quarter of an hour.
The top, thirty feet square, is strewn with big blocks of stone and
has a flag-staff. Here ambitious people sometimes breakfast. Arabs are
already here with koollehs of water and antiquities. When the whole
party arrives the guides set up a perfunctory cheer; but the attempt to
give an air of achievement to our climbing performance and to make it
appear that we are the first who have ever accomplished the feat, is a
failure. We sit down upon the blocks and look over Egypt, as if we were
used to this sort of thing at home.
All that is characteristic of Egypt is in sight; to the west, the Libyan
hills and the limitless stretch of yellow desert sand; to the north,
desert also and the ruined pyramid of Abooroâsh; to the south, that long
necropolis of the desert marked by the pyramids of Abooseér, Sakkarah,
and Dashoor; on the east, the Nile and its broad meadows widening into
the dim Delta northward, the white line of Cairo under the Mokattam
hills, and the grey desert beyond. Egypt is a ribbon of green between
two deserts. Canals and lines of trees stripe the green of the
foreground; white sails flicker southward along the river, winging their
way to Nubia; the citadel and its mosque shine in the sun.
An Arab offers to run down the side of this pyramid, climb the second
one, the top of which is still covered with the original casing, and
return in a certain incredible number of minutes. We decline, because we
don't like to have a half-clad Arab thrust his antics between us and
the contemplation of dead yet mighty Egypt. We regret our refusal
afterwards, for there is nothing people like to read about so much
as feats of this sort. Humanity is more interesting than stones. I am
convinced that if Martha Rugg had fallen off the pyramid instead of the
rock at Niagara Falls, people would have looked at the spot where she
fell, and up at the stairs she came bobbing down, with more interest
than at the pyramid itself. Nevertheless, this Arab, or another did,
while we were there, climb the second pyramid like a monkey; he looked
only a black speck on its side.
That accidents sometimes happen on the pyramids, I gather from the
conversation of Hadji, who is full of both information and philosophy
to-day.
“Sometime man, he fool, he go up. Man say, 'go this way.' Fool, he say,
'let me lone.' Umbrella he took him, threw him off; he dead in hundred
pieces.”
As to the selling of Scarabæi to travelers, Hadji inclines to the side
of the poor:—“Good one, handsome one,—one pound. Not good for much—but
what to do? Gentleman he want it; man he want the money.”
For Murray's' Guide-Book he has not more respect than guides usually
have who have acted as interpreters in the collection of information for
it. For “interpret” Hadji always says “spell.”
“When the Murray come here I spell it to the man, the man to Murray
and him put it down. He don't know anything before. He told me, what
is this? I told him what it is. Something,” with a knowing nod, “be new
after Murray. Look here, Murray very old now.”
Hadji understands why the cost of living has gone up so much in Egypt.
“He was very sheap; now very different, dearer—because plenty people. I
build a house, another people build a house, and another people he build
a house. Plenty men to work, make it dear.” I have never seen Hadji's
dwelling, but it is probably of the style of those that he calls—when in
the street we ask him what a specially shabby mud-wall with a ricketty
door in it is—“a brivate house.”
About the Great Pyramid has long waged an archaeological war. Years have
been spent in studying it, measuring it inside and outside, drilling
holes into it, speculating why this stone is in one position and that
in another, and constructing theories about the purpose for which it was
built. Books have been written on it, diagrams of all its chambers
and passages, with accurate measurements of every stone in them, are
printed. If I had control of a restless genius who was dangerous to the
peace of society, I would set him at the Great Pyramid, certain that
he would have occupation for a lifetime and never come to any useful
result. The interior has peculiarities, which distinguish it from all
other pyramids; and many think that it was not intended for a sepulchre
mainly; but that it was erected for astronomical purposes, or as a
witness to the true north, east, south, and west, or to serve as a
standard of measure; not only has the passage which descends obliquely
three hundred and twenty feet from the opening into the bed-rock, and
permits a view of the sky from that depth, some connection with the
observation of Sirius and the fixing of the Sothic year; not only is
the porphyry sarcophagus that is in the King's Chamber, secure from
fluctuations of temperature, a fixed standard of measure; but the
positions of various stones in the passages (stones which certainly are
stumbling-blocks to everybody who begins to think why they are there)
are full of a mystic and even religious signification. It is most
restful, however, to the mind to look upon this pyramid as a tomb,
and that it was a sepulchre like all the others is the opinion of most
scholars.
Whatever it was, it is a most unpleasant place to go into. But we wanted
one idea of' Cimmerian darkness, and the sensation of being buried
alive, and we didn't like to tell a lie when asked if we had been in,
and therefore we went. You will not understand where we went without a
diagram, and you never will have any idea of it until you go. We, with
a guide for each person, light candles, and slide and stumble down an
incline; we crawl up an incline; we shuffle along a level passage that
seems interminable, backs and knees bent double till both are apparently
broken, and the torture of the position is almost unbearable; we get
up the Great Gallery, a passage over a hundred and fifty feet long,
twenty-eight high, and seven broad, and about as easy to ascend as a
logging-sluice, crawl under three or four portcullises, and emerge,
dripping with perspiration and covered with dust, into the king's
chamber, a room thirty-four feet long, seventeen broad, and nineteen
high. It is built of magnificent blocks of syenite, polished and fitted
together perfectly, and contains the lidless sarcophagus.
If it were anywhere else and decently lighted, it would be a stylish
apartment; but with a dozen torches and candles smoking in it and
heating it, a lot of perspiring Arabs shouting and kicking up a dust,
and the feeling that the weight of the superincumbent mass was upon
us, it seemed to me too small and confined even for a tomb. The Arabs
thought they ought to cheer here as they did on top; we had difficulty
in driving them all out and sending the candles with them, in order
that we might enjoy the quiet and blackness of this retired situation.
I suppose we had for once absolute night, a room full of the original
Night, brother of Chaos, night bottled up for four or five thousand
years, the very night in which old Cheops lay in a frightful isolation,
with all the portcullises down and the passages sealed with massive
stones.
Out of this blackness the eye even by long waiting couldn't get a ray;
a cat's eye would be invisible in it. Some scholars think that Cheops
never occupied this sarcophagus. I can understand his feeling if he ever
came in here alive. I think he may have gone away and put up “to let” on
the door.
We scrambled about a good deal in this mountain, visited the so-called
Queen's Chamber, entered by another passage, below the King's, lost
all sense of time and of direction, and came out, glad to have seen the
wonderful interior, but welcoming the burst of white light and the pure
air, as if we were being born again. To remain long in that gulf of
mortality is to experience something of the mystery of death.
Ali Gobree had no antiquities to press upon us, but he could show us
some choice things in his house, if we would go there. Besides, his
house would be a cool place in which to eat our lunch. We walked
thither, a quarter of a mile down the sand slope on the edge of the
terrace. We had been wondering where the Sphinx was, expecting it to be
as conspicuous almost as the Pyramids. Suddenly, turning a sand-hill, we
came upon it, the rude lion's body struggling out of the sand, the human
head lifted up in that stiff majesty which we all know.
So little of the body is now visible, and the features are so much
damaged that it is somewhat difficult to imagine what impression this
monstrous union of beast and man once produced, when all the huge
proportions stood revealed, and color gave a startling life-likeness to
that giant face. It was cut from the rock of the platform; its back
was patched with pieces of sandstone to make the contour; its head was
solid. It was approached by flights of stairs descending, and on the
paved platform where it stood were two small temples; between its paws
was a sort of sanctuary, with an altar. Now, only the back, head and
neck are above the drifting sand. Traces of the double crown of Upper
and Lower Egypt which crowned the head are seen on the forehead, but
the crown has gone. The kingly beard that hung from the chin has been
chipped away. The vast wig—the false mass of hair that encumbered the
shaven heads of the Egyptians, living or dead—still stands out on
either side the head, and adds a certain dignity. In spite of the
broken condition of the face, with the nose gone, it has not lost its
character. There are the heavy eyebrows, the prominent cheek-bones, the
full lips, the poetic chin, the blurred but on-looking eyes. I think
the first feeling of the visitor is that the face is marred beyond
recognition, but the sweep of the majestic lines soon becomes apparent;
it is not difficult to believe that there is a smile on the sweet mouth,
and the stony stare of the eyes, once caught, will never be forgotten.
The Sphinx, grossly symbolizing the union of physical and intellectual
force, and hinting at one of those recondite mysteries which we
still like to believe existed in the twilight of mankind, was called
Hor-em-Khoo (“the Sun in his resting-place”), and had divine honors paid
to it as a deity.
This figure, whatever its purpose, is older than the Pyramid of Cheops.
It has sat facing the east, on the edge of this terrace of tombs,
expecting the break of day, since a period that is lost in the dimness
of tradition. All the achievements of the race, of which we know
anything, have been enacted since that figure was carved. It has seen,
if its stony eyes could see, all the procession of history file before
it. Viewed now at a little distance or with evening shadows on it, its
features live again, and it has the calmness, the simple majesty that
belong to high art. Old writers say that the face was once sweet and
beautiful. How long had that unknown civilization lasted before it
produced this art?
Why should the Sphinx face the rising sun? Why does it stand in a
necropolis like a sleepy warden of the dead who sleep? Was it indeed
the guardian of those many dead, the mighty who slept in pyramids, in
rock-hewn tombs, in pits, their bodies ready for any pilgrimage; and
does it look to the east expecting the resurrection?
Not far from the Sphinx is a marvelous temple of syenite, which the sand
almost buries; in a well in one of its chambers was found the splendid
red-granite statue of Chephren, the builder of the second pyramid, a
piece of art which succeeding ages did not excel. All about the rock
plateau are tombs, and in some of them are beautiful sculptures, upon
which the coloring is fresh. The scenes depicted are of common life, the
occupations and diversions of the people, and are without any religious
signification. The admirable sculptures represent no gods and no funeral
mysteries; when they were cut the Egyptian theology was evidently not
constructed.
The residence of our guide is a tomb, two dry chambers in the rock, the
entrance closed by a wooden door. The rooms are large enough for tables
and chairs; upon the benches where the mummies have lain, are piled
antique fragments of all sorts, set off by a grinning skull or a
thigh-bone; the floor is covered with fine yellow sand. I don't know how
it may have seemed to its first occupant, but we found it an excellent
luncheon place, and we could sleep there calmly and securely, when the
door was shut against the jackals—though I believe it has never been
objected to a tomb that one couldn't sleep in it. While we sip our
coffee Ali brings forth his antique images and scarabæi. These are
all genuine, for Ali has certificates from most of the well-known
Egyptologists as to his honesty and knowledge of antiquities. We
are looking for genuine ones; those offered us at the pyramids were
suspicious. We say to Ali:—
“We should like to get a few good scarabæi; we are entirely ignorant of
them; but we were sent to you as an honest man. You select half a dozen
that you consider the best, and we will pay you a fair price; if they do
not pass muster in Cairo you shall take them back.”
“As you are a friend of Mr. Blank,” said Ali, evidently pleased with the
confidence reposed in him, “you shall have the best I have, for about
what they cost me.”
The Scarabæus is the black beetle that the traveler will constantly see
tumbling about in the sand, and rolling up balls of dirt as he does
in lands where he has not so sounding a name. He was sacred to the old
Egyptians as an emblem of immortality, because he was supposed to have
the power of self-production. No mummy went away into the shades of the
nether world without one on his breast, with spread-wings attached to
it. Usually many scarabæi were buried with the mummy—several hundreds
have been found in one mummy-case. They were cut from all sorts of
stones, both precious and common, and made of limestone, or paste,
hardened, glazed and baked. Some of them are exquisitely cut, the
intaglio on the under side being as clean, true, and polished as Greek
work. The devices on them are various; the name of a reigning or a
famous king, in the royal oval, is not uncommon, and an authentic
scarabæus with a royal name is considered of most value. I saw an
insignificant one in soft stone and of a grey color, held at a hundred
pounds; it is the second one that has ever been found with the name of
Cheops on it. The scarabæi were worn in rings, carried as charms, used
as seals; there are large coarse ones of blue pottery which seem to have
been invitations to a funeral, by the inscriptions on them.
The Scarabæus is at once the most significant and portable souvenir of
ancient Egypt that the traveler can carry away, and although the supply
was large, it could not fill the demand. Consequently antique scarabæi
are now manufactured in large quantities at Thebes, and in other places,
and distributed very widely over the length of Egypt; the dealers have
them with a sprinkling of the genuine; almost every peasant can produce
one from his deep pocket; the women wear them in their bosoms.
The traveler up the Nile is pretty sure to be attacked with the fever of
buying Scarabæi; he expects to happen upon one of great value, which he
will get for a few piastres. It is his intention to do so. The Scarabæus
becomes to him the most beautiful and desirable object in the world. He
sees something fascinating in its shape, in its hieroglyphics, however
ugly it may be to untaught eyes.
Ali selected our scarabæi. They did not seem to us exactly the antique
gems that we had expected to see, and they did not give a high idea of
the old Egyptian art. But they had a mysterious history and meaning;
they had shared the repose of a mummy perhaps before Abraham departed
from Ur. We paid for them. We paid in gold. We paid Ali for his
services as guide. We gave him backsheesh on account of his kindness and
intelligence, besides. We said good-bye to his honest face with regret,
and hoped to see him again.
It was not long before we earnestly desired to meet him. He was a most
accomplished fellow, and honesty was his best policy. There isn't a more
agreeable Bedawee at the Pyramids; and yet Ali is a modern Egyptian,
just like his scarabæi, all the same. The traveler who thinks the
Egyptians are not nimble-witted and clever is likely to pay for his
knowledge to the contrary. An accumulated experience of five thousand
years, in one spot, is not for nothing.
We depart from the pyramids amid a clamor of importunity; prices
have fallen to zero; antiquities old as Pharaoh will be given away;
“backsheesh, backsheesh, O Howadji;” “I havn't any bread to mangere, I
have six children; what is a piastre for eight persons?” They run
after us, they hang upon the carriage, they follow us a mile, begging,
shrieking, howling, dropping off one by one, swept behind by the weight
of a copper thrown to them.
The shadows fall to the east; there is a lovely light on the plain; we
meet long lines of camels, of donkeys, of fellaheen returning from city
and field. All the west is rosy; the pyramids stand in a purple light;
the Sphinx casts its shade on the yellow sand; its expectant eyes look
beyond the Nile into the mysterious East.
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