EGYPT.
Jaffa—Its History and its Orange Orchard—On the Mediterranean—Port
Said—Suez Canal—The Red Sea—Pharaoh and his Host Swallowed
Up—From Suez to Cairo—Arabian Nights—Egyptian Museum—Royal
Mummies—A Look at Pharaoh—A Mummy 5,700 Years Old—A Talk with
the King—Christmas-Day and a Generous Rivalry—Donkey-Boys of
Cairo—Wolves around a Helpless Lamb—Johnson on his Knees—Yankee
Doodle—The Nile—The Prince of Wales—Pyramid in the Distance—Face
to Face with the Pyramid of Cheops—Ascending the Pyramid—Going in
it—Johnson Cries for Help—The Sphinx, and what it is Thinking about.
JAFFA, “the high,” or “the beautiful,” situated on the Mediterranean,
forty-two miles from Jerusalem, is the principal seaport in Palestine.
It has always been a favorite shipping point. From here, Jonah started
on that famous voyage that ended on the inside of a whale. Not until
the time of the Maccabees, second century before Christ, did Jaffa,
ancient Joppa, fall into the hands of the Jews. Soon, however, it was
wrenched from them by the Romans. Augustus returned it to them. “Since
then,” Doctor Geikie remarks, “its fortunes have been various; now
Roman, next Saracen, next under the Crusaders, then under the Mamelukes
of Egypt, and next under the Turks, to whom, to its misfortune, it
still belongs.”
It was here that Napoleon I. had several thousand Arab prisoners
of war shot. The great chieftain has been severely censured for
this “cold-blooded murder.” I am not sure, however, but that his
“cold-blooded” critics are as heartless in stabbing him with the pen,
as he was in ordering those Arabs executed. He was thousands of miles
from home. He had no provisions to feed, and no men to guard, the
prisoners. To turn them loose was to strengthen the enemy, who already
outnumbered him ten to one. In the name of Mars, I ask, what else could
Napoleon do?
While in Joppa, staying with one Simon a tanner, who lived by the
seaside, Peter went upon the housetop and, in a vision, saw a sheet
let down from Heaven, filled with all manner of four footed beasts.
There is to-day in Jaffa a tannery, by the seaside. The stone vats are
exceedingly old. The most pleasant place in Jaffa is on the housetops.
Standing upon the flat roof of the house in the tan-yard, I easily
throw pebbles into the Sea.
Jaffa is worthy of her name. Situated in the midst of an extensive
orange orchard, which slopes at first steeply, and then gently, up
from the water’s edge, she may well be called, “The Beautiful.” I have
eaten oranges in different countries, but nowhere have I found them
so delicately and deliciously flavored as here in Jaffa. The orchard
stretches itself along the seashore for two miles, or more, and extends
about the same distance back towards the hill-country. Not oranges
only, but figs, dates, pomegranates, pears, peaches, bananas, apricots
and other tropical fruits flourish about Jaffa. This is a great summer
resort for the people of Bethlehem, Nazareth, and Jerusalem. And why
should it not be? The sea breeze is refreshing, the foliage of the
orange trees is always green, and the blossoms always fragrant. The
ten thousand people who live in Jaffa walk through filthy streets, and
live in sorry houses, many of them in miserable huts. They are not,
however, so poverty-stricken as are their kinsmen in other portions of
the country, for the showers of golden fruit are constantly bringing
streams of golden coin into the Beautiful City.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF DAVID AND JAFFA GATE.]
With pockets full of oranges, and hearts full of gratitude that God
has graciously permitted us to traverse the Holy Land from Dan to
Beersheba, and from the river to the Great Sea, we take shipping at
Jaffa for the land of the Pharaohs. The voyage is rendered thoroughly
uncomfortable because of a cargo of sheep. The helpless creatures
are crowded together almost as if they were cut up and salted down
as mutton. During a rough sea, they are so shaken up and jostled
together that they, like Peter’s wife’s mother, lie sick of a fever.
The fumes arising from these fevered victims have a most distressing
effect upon the passengers. But for the sea breeze, we should all go
crazy, or should ourselves die of the fever. Night brings no sleep to
our pillows, no relief to our throbbing temples. I feel that I would
almost be glad to be thrown overboard, like Jonah, and trust to some
passing whale to carry me ashore. It is therefore with great pleasure
that we step off of this sheep-cursed ship on Egyptian soil, in Port
Said, at the mouth of the Suez Canal. Port Said, which now has five to
eight thousand inhabitants, has been built since the opening of the
Suez Canal which, as the reader knows, connects the Mediterranean and
Red seas. It is, perhaps, according to its length, the most important
stream or “connecting body” of water in the world.
Leaving Port Said on a steamer, I soon find myself gliding through this
Canal, whose construction is regarded as one of the grandest triumphs
of modern science. Great banks of sand rise on either side, and the
blue sky stretches above our merchant ship. We are constantly passing
large merchant ships going to south Africa and to India, and meeting
others coming from there. Every few hundred yards, we see a dredging
machine at work deepening and widening the Canal. The desert sands are
ever encroaching upon it. I believe it will finally have to be walled
up with rock. The Suez Canal was opened, more than twenty years ago, in
the presence of representatives of nearly every civilized government.
It is 110 miles long, 26 feet deep, 72 feet wide at the bottom, and 140
feet at the top, and was constructed at a cost of almost one hundred
million dollars. “The great advantage of the Canal,” says the _London
Times_, “is, of course, the decrease of the distance to be traveled
between Europe and India; for, while it is about 11,200 miles from
London or Hamburg, by the Cape of Good Hope, to Bombay, by the Suez
it is only 6,332. This reduces the voyage by twenty-four days. From
Marseilles or Genoa, a saving of thirty days is effected, and from
Trieste thirty-seven.” The rates at which steamers are allowed to pass
is from five to six miles per hour.
While the French furnished the brains and the money for the
construction of the Canal, it is at present chiefly owned by Great
Britain, Disraeli having bought up a great part of the stock, when
considerably below par, for 4,000,000 pounds. Since that time,
however, the value has increased to nearly 11,000,000 pounds. It
was, therefore, a paying investment. Out of every one hundred vessels
passing this way, seventy-five of them belong to England. The Canal is
jealously guarded by English forts and English men-of-war. The British
Lion has laid his paw upon Egypt, and ere long a change will come over
the spirit of somebody’s dreams.
Passing through the land of Goshen, where Israel dwelt, then through
a series of lakes, and finally by the town of Suez, we enter the Red
Sea. There is more life in or on this sea than around its waters.
Nevertheless, it is of surpassing interest to the students of sacred
and profane history. The place where Moses led the children of Israel
across the sea can not be determined with certainty. The authorities
are about equally divided between each of two places. Pharaoh and his
host were swallowed up by the sea, and no one has ever thought enough
of them even to fish for their chariot wheels. A thinking man, with
a devout heart in him, trembles as he stands upon the shore of this
sea, and reads the thirteenth and fourteenth chapters of Exodus, and
especially when in the vicinity of Mount Sinai he reads the nineteenth
and twentieth chapters.
Returning to Suez, we find a rude contrivance, by courtesy called a
train, which makes occasional trips to Cairo. It is by all odds the
most uncomfortable “clap-trap” I have ever been in. It is constructed
much after the order of our cattle-cars. During the trip, we encounter
a sand storm and are almost suffocated. I suppose, however, I should do
like other folk, and praise the bridge that brings me over safely.
At all events, I am now in Egypt, the oldest country in the world, the
cradle of civilization. It is here that the god of thought first waved
his enchanted wand, and separated intellectual light from the long
night of ignorance. I am in Cairo, the capital of Egypt, and, next to
Damascus, the most exclusively Oriental city in the Levant. It is still
the city of “Arabian Nights.” It is as Eastern and as odd now as when
“Raselas” roamed through its streets. I should like to describe Cairo,
with its mosques and minarets, with its flower gardens and palm groves,
with its narrow streets and curious bazaars, thronged and crowded with
a moving mass of turbaned men and veiled women.
I should like especially to speak of my trip up the Nile, of my visits
to the place where it is said Pharaoh’s daughter “came down to wash
herself in the river,” and found Moses in the ark of bulrushes (Ex.
XI: 1-10), to the Virgin’s tree, in the ward where it is claimed that
Joseph and Mary lived during their stay in Egypt, to the petrified
forests, and to other places of interest; but Time, that restless,
sleepless, ever-watchful tyrant, forbids. If I were Joshua, I would
command the sun to stand still while I finish this chapter. As that is
impossible, I will do the next best thing—turn my watch back half an
hour, and write on.
[Illustration: NUBIAN.]
Peculiar interest attaches to the museum of this place, because of its
mummies. The old Egyptians could not paint a beautiful picture, or
chisel a graceful statue, but they certainly knew how to embalm and
preserve the human body. Let us pass by the “common dead,” and go at
once into the Hall of Royal Mummies. Here we find the almost perfectly
preserved bodies of twelve or fifteen of Egypt’s kings. Among them is
the mummy of Rameses II., the Pharaoh who ruled at the time when Moses
was born. All these mummies are, of course, in air tight glass cases,
but are plainly visible. Rameses II. was a man of powerful physique, a
small head which is full in front, heavy features and hard. Albeit, his
face betokens strength of character and an iron will. There is a far
away, dreamy appearance playing over his countenance. He looks as if he
is thinking about the past. We will not disturb his peaceful slumbers.
We come next into the presence of His Royal Highness, King So Karimsap,
who is thus labelled: “This is the oldest known mummy and is probably
5,700 years old.” As the king has rather a pleasant and familiar
looking face, I presume to speak to him. I say:
“If your Royal Highness will have the goodness to excuse a stranger, I
should like to ask you a few questions.”
“Quite excusable, sir, proceed,” is the fancied reply.
Question. “While ruling Egypt of old, you were much honored and revered
by your subjects. Why, then, did you decide to change your mode of
existence?”
Reply—
“The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow’r,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave,
Await, alike, th’ inevitable hour;
The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.”
“Do you receive the same reverence and homage now as when you occupied
the throne of Egypt?”
“No; in the world of departed spirits, where I now dwell, there is no
difference between prince and peasant.”
“What! Did not your title and regal attire secure you a seat of honor?”
“Ah! no. Purple robes and jeweled crowns are no passport to honor here.
The robe of Christ’s righteousness is the only garment that admits one
into the presence of the pure.”
“But is the robe of righteousness you speak of a sure guarantee of
Divine favor?”
“Never yet has it failed. In your world, a man may live in poverty and
die in distress; yet, when he comes into this world with that spotless
garment on, all the fiends of hell shrink back in horror at his
approach, and all the angels of Heaven greet him with shouts of joy and
anthems of praise. The Master places a crown of gold on his brow, and
silver slippers on his feet.”
“But I see you have great riches in your coffin with you; could you not
bribe the doorkeeper, and buy your way in?”
“Your questions mock me. What were my paltry sum to Him who holds the
world in His hands. My advice to you is to seek first the kingdom of
God and His righteousness; to seek peace and pursue it; to buy the
truth and sell it not. These will be worth more to you than wealth and
titles of honor and power and dominion all combined. I would rather be
a true disciple of the Lord Jesus Christ than wear the brightest diadem
that ever graced a monarch’s brow, and know Him not.”
Thanking the king for his kindness, and his words of wisdom, I bow
myself out of his presence. The people here talk of “King So Karimsap”
as though he had lived yesterday, when the truth is his light of life
went out more than fifty centuries before we were born! It is said
that “the railroads in Egypt use mummies for fuel; and on wet days the
engineers are heard frequently to cry out?: ‘These plebeians won’t burn
worth a cent; hand me out a king!’ On express trains, it is claimed,
they use nothing but kings.”
Christmas morning I am up before the lamps of night are dimmed by the
rising god of day. There seems to be a rivalry among the stella host,
each trying to outshine its neighbor. Each star twinkles and smiles
and laughs and pours a flood of glory down. I never saw anything like
it—there is less of earth than of Heaven in the scene. I say “Surely,
these are creatures singing the praise of their Master—of Him whose
birthday they fain would celebrate.” While yet these balls of fire
gleam bright from the blue sky above, Johnson and I are in the saddle
on our way to the Pyramids. Yes, in the saddle. In Cairo, saddles are
street-cars. Egyptian boys, each with a fresh-barbered donkey, bridled
and saddled, throng the streets. The moment a traveler steps on the
sidewalk, he is doomed. These boys leading their donkeys, crowd around
him like hungry wolves around a helpless lamb. He can not get away. The
boys are irresistible. They take hold of you, and throw you into the
saddle, and instantly the donkey moves off. Then all the boys throw up
their caps and halloo, except the one whose donkey you are on. He, of
course, follows you, one hand grasping the donkey’s tail and the other
clutching a stick. The tail is used as a rudder to guide the animal,
and the stick as an argument to persuade him to quicken his already
flying steps. Every one rides as if he were carrying the mail. Indeed,
he can not help it. The donkey is running for life—he must move, or be
brained on the spot. All persons give way for the coming donkey as if
he were a steam engine.
[Illustration: DONKEY BOYS OF CAIRO, EGYPT.]
Christmas Eve was our first experience. We had gotten here the night
before. I had heard of the donkey boys, but had forgotten all about
them. Well, as soon as we stepped on the streets, “they came, they saw,
they conquered!” They capture Johnson first. In five minutes, they had
him on a zebra-looking ass, and were rushing him down Palm Avenue at a
two-forty pace. I was bringing up the rear, but the zebra was all the
time gaining on me. I would, probably, soon have been left far behind,
if things had moved on smoothly. But Johnson’s “flying Dutchman”
fell—he spilt his rider on one side of the street, and he took the
other. When I rode up, the boy was trying to bring the donkey to by
twisting his tail. Johnson was on his knees—not at prayer—and his hat
was gone. In five minutes more, we were on our way again. We reached
the American Consul’s office in due time, and without any broken bones.
On our way back, “Yankee Doodle” stumbled, and I fell straddle of his
neck; but on he rushed, faster than before. In vain I struggled to
get back to the saddle. All other efforts having failed, I, in order
to regain my position, placed my feet on the embankments rising up on
either side of the rock-hewn path. With my feet upon these embankments,
I lifted myself up for a moment, expecting at the right time to sit
down in the saddle. But the donkey was too quick for me; when I sat
down on him he was not there. A moment later found my head in the
ditch, and my heels in the air. We called at the drug store, and got
some salve—Johnson is better now.
[Illustration: THE PYRAMID AND SPHYNX.]
Well, as I was going on to say, we get an early start to the Pyramids.
We meet hundreds of camels coming off of the great desert, and donkeys
without number going into market, laden with hay and clover, fish,
fuel and vegetables. Where we cross the Nile, both banks are lined with
tall, majestic palm trees, the finest I have ever seen. The rising sun
throws the palm shadows on the river’s broad bosom. The shadows sink
into the blue depths below; we see two palm groves standing end to
end—one above, and one below the water.
Now, leaving the Nile, and turning directly west, we travel along a
road that was constructed a few years ago by the Khedive for the use of
the Prince of Wales and party. Unfortunately, I am not informed whether
the Prince made this trip on a donkey or not. I know this, however,
whether he walked, rode an ass, or was driven in a carriage of state,
he enjoyed the Pyramids not one whit more than I do. I can not help
enjoying them. They are already looming up before me, clearly outlined
against the sky. At first, they seem to swim in a sea of mirage that
rises up from the surrounding country—they are composed of such stuff
as dreams are made of. But, as I come nearer, that airy nothingness
assumes definite shape, and takes on colossal proportions. At last I
stand face to face with a Miracle in Stone, the only remaining one of
the seven wonders of the ancient world. It is at once the most massive
and mysterious, the most towering and majestic, the oldest, and yet the
most enduring, of all the works of man. It bursts upon me, at once, in
all the “flower of its highest perfection.” I go “back down the stream
of time,” and breathe the atmosphere of five thousand years ago. I
see, in my imagination, thousands and thousands of human slaves, deep
down in the bowels of some far off mountain, blasting these stones.
I see them piling the stones upon rough barges, and floating them a
thousand miles down yonder Nile. I see them out here on the desert,
clearing away a thirteen-acre base, on which to erect a hand-made
mountain. On this thirteen-acre foundation, I see the Pyramid rise,
block after block, course upon course, up, and still up, it goes. These
blocks of rock, one of which it takes on an average two hundred men
to raise the eighth of an inch from the ground, are lifted high up in
the air and swung into their destined places with an exactness that
varies not the fraction of an inch. Yes, here is the Pyramid, with its
broad base, sloping sides, and cloud-piercing summit; but who were its
builders? and where are they? Echo answers, “who? where?”
“Forty centuries look down upon us from the Pyramids,” and speak
to us in trumpet tones of the folly of human ambition. Think of
the straining, the suffering and the sorrowing, that those foolish
Pyramid-builders caused, in order to have their bodies preserved, and
their memories perpetuated. Their work still stands, but long ago their
very bones have been ground into powder, and even their names are
unknown to man.
The Great Pyramid is 730 feet square at the base, and is 460 feet high.
“The usual process in Egyptian Pyramid building seems to have been to
start with an upright column, or needle, of rock, and enclose it in a
series of steps formed of huge blocks of stone. Fresh series of steps
were added to the outside, till the requisite dimensions were obtained.
Then the steps were filled up with smooth polished stones, covered with
sculpture and inscriptions.” Deep down in the Pyramids were left open
chambers and passages, as the burial places of the illustrious builder
and his family. Of course, these interior chambers were closed and
hermetically sealed. From the Great Pyramid, or the Pyramid of Cheops,
the outer polished stones have been removed, so now there remains a
series of colossal steps, up which some visitors climb to the top.
To ascend the Pyramid, one must pay a fee to the Sheik, who furnishes
him with two strong Arabs—some travelers require four—to assist him
up. It would be both difficult and dangerous to attempt the ascent
alone. The steps are often five feet high. There is no chance to catch
a hand hold, and you have only twelve, and sometimes six, inches to
stand on while you struggle to get up. We had two assistants each, yet
Johnson came very near falling. I was amused, and excited, too, when I
heard him cry out to the Arabs, “Hold me! _hold me!_”
At the top of the Pyramid, there is a level platform, about thirty feet
square, from which one gets a fine view of the surrounding country.
Looking eastward, I can trace the majestic Nile, in its onward sweep
toward the ocean, and its fertile valley, once the granary of the
world. Turning toward the setting sun, I look out for miles and miles
over the arid desert. Not a living thing do I see, but a caravan of
camels, those ships of the desert, just starting out on their long
journey. After descending almost to the ground, we have then to slide
on our stomachs up an inclined plane, on the inside of the Pyramid in
order to reach the interior chamber, which was long ago robbed of its
mummied kings.
A few hundred yards from the Pyramid of Cheops stands the colossal
Sphynx, which, if possible, is a greater wonder than the Pyramid
itself. The Sphynx is a huge lion with a human head. It is therefore
an emblematic sovereign, combining the greatest earthly wisdom with
the greatest possible strength. I said the Sphynx is colossal. Look
at it and see for yourself. Its paws are fifty feet, and its body one
hundred and forty feet in length. Its massive head is of proportionate
size. This image is hewn out of solid stone, and stands out before us
in giant-like proportions. And yet it is so graceful and symmetrical,
withal, that we half-way forget its size. We are wondering why it does
not move and walk, why we can not see it breathe and roll its eyes. If
God would only touch the Sphynx, it would instantly become a living
creature! Its countenance has been described as wearing “an expression
of the softest beauty and most winning grace.” This, however, must
have been in the days of its youth. At present, it has a furrowed brow
and wrinkled. Its eyes are deep back in its head, and its jaws are
firmly set. It wears a pensive, thoughtful look.
I speak to the Sphynx, but, paying no attention, it stands “staring
right on, with calm eternal eyes.” As an old man in his dotage, forgets
all that took place during the days of his strength and manly glory,
and thinks only of those things which occurred in early life, so this
Sphynx stands, with memory stretching like rainbow from old age to
childhood. It is thinking about the confusion of tongues that took
place around the tower of Babel; about the morning when the city of
Damascus was laid out by Uz, the great-grandson of Noah; about the day
when God appeared to Abraham, and told him to leave the land of Ur and
go into the land of Canaan. It is thinking about the time when Joseph
ruled Egypt; when Moses was found in the ark of bulrushes, on the bosom
of yonder Nile; when Pharaoh was swallowed up by the Red Sea. In middle
life, this “eternal statue” saw Troy fall and Athens rise. In old age,
it saw Rome flourish, fade and fall.
Standing side by side, are the Sphynx and the Pyramids, both huge in
dimensions, both graceful in appearance, both impressive to behold,
both “ancient as the sun,” and both I believe, will be among the last
earthly objects to yield to the “wasting tooth of Time.”