LEAVING EGYPT--THE DESERT.
We left Cairo the next morning. Our departure from Egypt was not
exactly like that of the Israelites, though we came through the land
of Goshen, and by the way of the Red Sea. We did not flee away at
night, nor hear the rush of horses and chariots behind us. Indeed we
were very reluctant to flee at all; we did not like to go away, for in
those five or six weeks we had grown very fond of the country, to
which the society of agreeable travelling companions lent an
additional charm.
But the world was all before us, and necessity bade us depart. It was
the 6th of January, the beginning of the feast of Bairam, the
Mohammedan Passover. The guns of the Citadel ushered in the day,
observed by all devout Mussulmans, which commemorates the sacrifice by
Abraham--not of Isaac, but of _Ishmael_, for the Arabs, who are
descendants of Ishmael, have no idea of his being set aside by the
other son of the Father of the Faithful. On this day every family
sacrifices the paschal lamb (which explains the flocks of sheep which
we had seen for several days in the streets of the city), and
sprinkles its blood upon the lintels and doorposts of their houses,
that the angel of death may pass them by. The day is one of general
rejoicing and festivity. The Khedive gives a grand reception to all
the foreign representatives at his palace of Gezireh, at which I had
been invited to be present. But from this promised pleasure I had to
tear myself away, to reach the steamer at Suez on which we were to
embark the next day for India. But if we missed the Khedive, we had at
least a compensation, for as we were at the station, who should appear
but Nubar Pasha! He had just resigned the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,
which took a load off his shoulders, and felt like a boy out of
school, and was now going off to a farm which he has a few miles from
Cairo, to have a holiday. He immediately came to us and took a seat in
the same carriage, and we sat together for an hour, listening to his
delightful conversation, as he talked of Egypt with a patriot's love
and a poet's enthusiasm. There is no man who more earnestly wishes its
prosperity, and it would be well for the Khedive if he were always
guided by such advisers. At the station his servants met him with one
of those beautiful white donkeys, so much prized in the East, and as
he rode away waving his hand to us, we felt that we were parting from
one of the wisest and wittiest men whom it had been our good fortune
to meet in all our travels.
At Zagazig, the railroad from Cairo unites with that from Alexandria.
Here we stopped to dine, and while waiting, a special train arrived
with Mr. Cave, who has come out from London to try and put some order
into the financial affairs of Egypt. If he succeeds, he will deserve
to be ranked very high as a financier. He was going on to Ismailia to
meet M. de Lesseps, that they might go through the Suez Canal
together.
And now we leave behind us the rich land of Goshen, where Joseph
placed his father Jacob and his brethren, with their flocks and herds;
we leave the fertile meadows and the palm groves. We are on the track
of the Israelites; we have passed Rameses, the first station in their
march, and entered the desert, that "great and terrible wilderness" in
which they wandered forty years. We enter it, not on camels or horses,
but drawn by a steed of fire. A railway in the desert! This is
progress indeed. There is something very imposing to the imagination
in the idea of an iron track laid in the pathless sands, over which
long trains move swifter than "the swift dromedaries," and carrying
burdens greater than the longest caravans. These are the highways of
civilization, which may yet carry it into the heart of Africa. Here,
too, are the great ships, passing through the Suez Canal, whose tall
masts are outlined against the horizon, as they move slowly from sea
to sea.
And now we are approaching the border line between Asia and Africa. It
is an invisible line; no snow-capped mountains divide the mighty
continents which were the seats of the most ancient civilization; no
sea flows between them: the Red Sea terminates over seventy miles from
the Mediterranean; even the Suez Canal does not divide Asia and
Africa, for it is wholly in Egypt. Nothing marks where Africa ends and
Asia begins, but a line in the desert, covered by drifting sands. And
yet there is something which strangely touches the imagination, as we
move forward in the twilight, with the sun behind us, setting over
Africa, and before us the black night coming on over the whole
continent of Asia.
So would I take leave of Africa--in the Night and in the Desert. Byron
closes his Childe Harold with an apostrophe to the Ocean, his Pilgrim
ending his wanderings on the shore. The Desert is like the Sea: it
fills the horizon, and shuts out the sight of "busy cities far away,"
leaving one on the boundless plain, as on the Ocean--alone with the
Night. Perhaps I may be indulged in some quiet musings here, before we
embark on the Red Sea, and seek a new world in India.
But what can one say of the desert? The subject seems as barren as its
own sands. _Life_ in the desert? There is _no_ life; it is the very
realm of death, where not a blade of grass grows, nor even an insect's
wing flutters over the mighty desolation; the only objects in motion,
the clouds that flit across the sky, and cast their shadows on the
barren waste below; and the only sign that man has ever passed over
it, the bleaching bones that mark the track of caravans.
But as we look, behold "a wind cometh out of the North," and stirring
the loose sand, whirls it into a column, which moves swiftly towards
us like a ghost, as if it said: "I am the spirit of the desert; man,
wherefore comest thou here? Pass on. If thou invadest long my realm of
solitude and silence, I will make thy grave." We shall not linger, but
only "tarry for a night," to question a little the mystery that lies
hidden beneath these drifting sands.
We look again, and we see shadowy forms coming out of the
whirlwind--great actors in history, as well as figures of the
imagination. The horizon is filled with moving caravans and marching
armies. Ancient conquerors pass this way for centuries from Asia into
Africa, and back again, the wave of conquest flowing and reflowing
from the valley of the Tigris to the valley of the Nile. As we leave
the Land of Goshen, we hear behind us the tramp of the Israelites
beginning their march; and as the night closes in, we see in another
quarter of the horizon the wise men of the East coming from Arabia,
following their guiding star, which leads them to Bethlehem, where
Christ was born.
And so the desert which was "dead" becomes "alive;" a whole living
world starts up from the sands, and glides into view, appearing
suddenly like Arab horsemen, and then vanishing as if it had not been,
and leaving no trace in the sands any more than is left by a wreck
that sinks in the ocean. But like the sea, it has its passing life,
which has a deep human interest. And not only is there a life of the
desert, but a literature which is the expression of that life--a
history and a poetry, which take their color from these peculiar forms
of nature--and even a music of the desert, sung by the camel-drivers,
to the slow movement of the caravan, its plaintive cadence keeping
time to the tinkling of the bells.
It has been one of the problems of physical geographers: What was the
_use_ of deserts in the economy of nature? A large part of Africa is
covered by deserts. The Libyan Desert reaches to the Sahara, which
stretches across the continent. All this seems an utterly waste
portion of the earth's surface. The same question has been raised in
regard to the sea: Why is it that three-fourths of the globe are
covered by water? Perhaps the same answer may be given in both cases.
These vast spaces may be the generators and purifiers of the air we
breathe--the renovators of our globe's atmosphere.
And the desert has its beauty as well as its utility. It is not all a
dead level, a boundless monotony, but is billowy like the sea, with
great waves of sand cast up by the wandering winds. The color, of
course, is always the same, for there is no green thing to relieve the
yellow sand. But nature sometimes produces great effects with few
materials. This monotony of color is touched with beauty by the glow
of sunset, as the light of day fades over the wide expanse. Sunrise
and sunset on the desert have all the simple but grand effects of
sunrise and sunset on the ocean. What painter that has visited Egypt
has not tried to put on canvas that after-glow on the Nile, which is
alike his wonder and his despair? Egypt is one of the favorite
countries sought by European artists, who seek to catch that
marvellous color which is the effect of its atmosphere. They find many
a subject in the desert. With the accessories of life, few as they
are, it presents many a scene to attract a painter's eye, and
furnishes full scope to his genius. A great artist finds ample
material in its bare and naked outlines, relieved by a few solitary
figures--the Arab and his tent, or the camel and his rider. Perhaps
the scene is simply a few palm trees beside a spring, under whose
shade a traveller has laid him down to rest from the noon-tide heat,
and beside him are camels feeding! But here is already a picture. With
what effect does Gerome give the Prayer in the Desert, with the camel
kneeling on the sands, and his rider kneeling beside him, with his
face turned towards Mecca; or Death in the Desert, where the poor
beast, weary and broken, is abandoned to die, yet murmurs not, but has
a look of patience and resignation that is most pathetic, as the
vultures are seen hovering in the air, ready to descend on their prey!
A _habitat_ so peculiar as the desert must produce a life as peculiar.
It is of necessity a lonely life. The dweller in tents is a solitary
man, without any fixed ties, or local habitation. Whoever lives on the
desert must live alone, or with few companions, for there is nothing
to support existence. It must be also a nomadic life. If the Arab
camps, with his flocks and herds, in some green spot beside a spring,
yet it is only for a few days, for in that time his sheep and cattle
have consumed the scanty herbage, and he must move on to some new
resting-place. Thus the life of the desert is a life always in motion.
The desert has no settled population, no towns or villages, where men
are born, and grow up, and live and die. Its only "inhabitants" are
"strangers and pilgrims," that come alone or in caravans, and pitch
their tents, and tarry for a night, and are gone.
Such a life induces peculiar habits, and breeds a peculiar class of
virtues and vices. Nomadic tribes are almost always robbers, for they
have to fight for existence, and it is a desperate struggle. But, on
the other hand, their solitary life as well as the command of the
prophet, has taught them the virtue of hospitality. Living alone, they
feel at times the sore need of the presence of their kind, and welcome
the companionship even of strangers. An Arab sheik may live by preying
on travellers, but if a wanderer on the desert approaches his tent and
asks shelter and protection, he gives it freely. Even though the old
chief be a robber, the stranger sleeps in peace and safety, and his
entertainer is rewarded by the comfort of seeing a human face and
hearing a human voice.
To traverse spaces so vast and so desolate would not be possible were
it not for that faithful beast of burden which nature has provided.
Horses may be used by the Bedouins on their marauding expeditions, but
they keep near the borders of the desert, where they can make a dash
and fly; but on the long journey across the Great Sahara, by which the
outer world communicates with the interior of Africa, no beast could
live but the camel, which is truly the ship of the desert. Paley might
find an argument for design in the peculiar structure of the camel for
its purpose; in its stomach, that can carry water for days, and its
foot, which is not small like that of the horse, but broad, to keep
the huge animal from sinking in the sands. It serves as a snow-shoe,
and bears up both the beast and his rider. Then it is not hard like a
horse's hoof, that rings so sharp on the pavement, but soft almost
like a lion's paw. And tall as the creature is, he moves with a
swinging gait, that is not unpleasant to one accustomed to it, and as
he comes down on his soft foot, the Arab mother sits at ease, and her
child is lulled to rest almost as if rocked in a cradle.
Thus moving on in these slow and endless marches, what so natural as
that the camel-riders should beguile their solitude with song? The
lonely heart relieves itself by pouring its loves and its sorrows into
the air; and hence come those Arabian melodies, so wild and plaintive
and tender, which constitute the music of the desert. Some years since
a symphony was produced in Paris, called "The Desert," which created a
great sensation, deriving its peculiar charm from its unlikeness to
European music. It awakened, as it were, a new sense in those who had
been listening all their lives to French and German operas. It seemed
to tell--as music only tells--the story of the life of the desert. In
listening one could almost see the boundless plain, broken only by the
caravan, moving slowly across the waste. He could almost "feel the
silence" of that vast solitude, and then faintly in the distance was
heard the tinkling of the camel-bells, and the song of the desert rose
upon the evening air, as softly as if cloistered nuns were singing
their vesper hymns. The novel conception took the fancy of the
pleasure seekers of Paris, always eager for a new sensation. The
symphony made the fame of the composer, Felicien David, who was
thought to have shown a very original genius in the composition of
melodies, such as Europe had not heard before. The secret was not
discovered until some French travellers in the East, crossing the
desert, heard the camel-drivers singing and at once recognized the
airs that had so taken the enthusiasm of Paris. They were the songs of
the Arabs. The music was born on the desert, and produced such an
effect precisely because it was the outburst of a passionate nature
brooding in solitude.
Music and poetry go together: the life that produces the one produces
the other also. And as there is a music of the desert, so there is a
poetry of the desert. Indeed the desert may be almost said to have
been the birthplace of poetry. The Book of Job, the oldest poem in the
world, older than Homer, and grander than any uninspired composition,
was probably written in Arabia, and is full of the imagery of the
desert.
But while the mind carols lightly in poetry and music, its deeper
musings take the form of Religion. It is easy to see how the life of
the desert must act upon a thoughtful and "naturally religious" mind.
The absence of outward objects throws it back upon itself; and it
broods over the great mystery of existence. Coleridge's Ancient
Mariner, when he was
"Alone on the wide, wide sea,"
found that
"So lonely 'twas that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be."
But in the desert one may say there is nothing but God. If there is
little of earth, there is much of heaven. The glory of the desert is
at night, when the full moon rises out of the level plain, as out of
the sea, and walks the unclouded firmament. And when she retires, then
all the heavenly host come forth. The atmosphere is of such exquisite
purity, that the stars shine with all their splendor. No vapor rises
from the earth, no exhalation obscures the firmament, which seems all
aglow with the celestial fires. It was such a sight that kindled the
mind of Job, as he looked up from the Arabian deserts three thousand
years ago, and saw Orion and the Pleiades keeping their endless march;
and as led him to sing of the time "when the morning stars sang
together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."
Is it strange that God should choose such a vast and silent temple as
this for the education of those whom He would set apart for his own
service? Here the Israelites were led apart to receive the law from
the immediate presence of God. The desert was their school, the place
of their national education. It separated them from their own history.
It drew a long track between them and the bitter past. It was a fit
introduction to their new life and their new religion, as to their new
country.
In such solitudes God has had the most direct communion with the
individual soul. It was in the desert that Moses hid himself in a
cleft of the rock while the Lord passed by; that the Lord answered Job
out of the whirlwind; and from it that John the Baptist came forth, as
the voice of one crying in the wilderness.
So in later ages holy men who wished to shun the temptations of
cities, that they might lead lives of meditation and prayer, fled to
the desert, that they might forget the world and live for God alone.
This was one of the favorite retreats of Monasticism in the early
Christian centuries. The tombs of the Thebaid were filled with monks.
Convents were built on the cliffs of Mount Sinai that remain to this
day.
We do not feel the need of such seclusion and separation from the
world, but this passing over the desert sets the mind at work and
supplies a theme for religious meditation. Is not life a desert,
where, as on the sea, all paths are lost, and the traveller can only
keep his course by observations on the stars? And are we not all
pilgrims? Do we not all belong to that slow moving caravan, that
marches steadily across the waste and disappears in the horizon? Can
we not help some poor wanderer who may be lonely and friendless, or
who may have faltered by the way; or guide another, if it be only to
go before him, and leave our footprints in the sands, that
"A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing may take heart again?"