Egypt and Nubia, though immediately adjacent, and closely connected by a river common to both, are essentially different countries. Through Egypt the sacred Nile flows with leisurely dignity, through Nubia it rushes in furious haste; over Egypt it distributes its blessings widely, in Nubia it is hemmed in by high rocky banks; in Egypt it triumphs over the desert, in Nubia the desert is supreme; Egypt is a garden which the river has formed after thousands of years of ceaseless labour, Nubia is a desert which it cannot conquer. Of course this desert has its oases like any other, but they are few and scarcely worth considering in comparison with the lands on both sides of the stream which remain in unchangeable sterility and desolation. Throughout the greater part of the long winding valley which forms what we call Nubia, dark, gleaming masses of rock rise from the bed of the river or from its immediate vicinity, and over wide tracts prevent the growth of almost all vegetation. They have for their sole adornment the waves of golden yellow sand which are blown from the deserts on east and west, and gradually slide down the rocks into the river. The sun beats from the deep-blue and rarely cloudy sky; for many years together not a single shower refreshes the thirsty ground. In the deeply cut gorges the life-giving waves of the fertilizing stream contend in vain with the unimpressionable rocks, on which they hurl themselves roaring and foaming, blustering and thundering, as if enraged that their generosity is met with ingratitude and their beneficence with disdain. The field on which this battle is waged is the region of the rapids.

Very few travellers who visit the lower valley of the Nile ever reach the rapids of its middle course. A few go beyond the so-called first cataract, scarcely one in a hundred passes the second. Wady Halfa, a village immediately below the second group of rapids, is the usual goal of travellers; only purposes of exploration, the passion for the chase, or some commercial enterprise, leads any one further south. For it is at Wady Haifa that the difficulties of a journey into the interior really begin, and it is therefore not surprising that the great majority turn the prow of the boat homewards at that village of palms. But no one who is young and vigorous, energetic, and not too luxuriously inclined, will ever regret if he pushes farther south. In the Nile valley, which is by no means rich in picturesqueness, the region of the rapids is quite unique. Grandeur and beauty, sombreness and gaiety, desolation and overflowing life mark the scenes that here follow one another in quick succession; but they are all desert pictures which this landscape presents, and one must forget conventional standards in order to appreciate them as they deserve. The man who is unable to appreciate the desert, to revel in its wealth of colour, to endure its scorching heat, and to find refreshment in its solemn night, would do well to avoid the desert of the Nile. But he who travels through the country of the rapids with open eye and receptive heart, who in his frail boat engages, wherever possible, in the struggle with the furiously foaming waves, will have his whole life enriched with precious memories. For never will the impressive spectacle that his eye has looked on fade from his mental vision, never will the sublime melody the stream has sung in his ear cease to echo in his soul. Such, at least, is my experience, and I have journeyed through the rocky valley of Nubia on land and on water, up the river and down, contending with the waves, ay, and with hunger and want, and looking down on the rapids from the tops of high cliffs as well as from the camel’s back.

It is customary to speak of three cataracts. Each consists of a series of rapids, which, for about a mile, make navigation in the highest degree difficult and dangerous. At the first cataract there is properly but one rapid; taking the second and third together there are about thirty which the Nubian boatmen call by special names. There are no waterfalls which make navigation of any kind impossible, not at least on the regular route where, in addition to passing vessels, there ply boats specially built and equipped for the rapids.[76]

When the traveller in his progress up the sacred river has traversed the north-easterly tract where the river is hemmed in between the Rocks of the Chain (Jebel Silsileh), the scenery changes abruptly. Behind him lies Egypt, in other words the low-lying valley, broadening seawards into a boundless plain; before him rises the rocky threshold of Nubia. The contrast is most striking. Monotony is replaced by diversity. It is indeed true that even the scenery of Egypt presents many a picture which is stimulating to the eye and refreshing to the soul; it is true that its beauty is enhanced, especially in the morning and evening hours, by the wondrous brilliance of southern light; but taken as a whole it seems monotonous, for everywhere the prospect is alike, whether the eye rests on rocks of sandstone and limestone by the margin of the valley, or takes a wider survey over the river and the fields. One and the same picture, with little variety, is repeated a hundred times: hills and fruitful plains, river-banks and islands, thickets of mimosa, groves of palms and sycamores, towns and villages, everywhere bear essentially the same stamp. But at the rock-masses of the first cataract, which form the last barrier overcome by the stream as it presses towards the sea, Egypt really ends and Nubia begins. No longer does the boat glide smoothly on a surface majestically calm; it has to fight its way among low masses of rock, and among rocky cones that rear themselves above the waves.

Nearing the first cataract, we see, high on a precipitous headland on the left bank, a wretched and yet impressive piece of Arabic architecture, the sepulchre of Sheikh Musas, the patron saint of the first rapids. Further on lies the island of Elephantine, rich in palms, and immediately beyond is Assuan. The way is hemmed in by masses of rock, from whose surface the waves, storming for thousands of years, have not succeeded in obliterating hieroglyphics graven in the time of the Pharaohs. These rocks compel the boat to follow a tortuous course, till at length it finds a safe landing-place in a calm creek, which is, however, so near the rapids that it is resonant with their raging.

It is venerable ground on which we stand. Through the inscriptions in the sacred characters of the ancient Egyptian people, past ages converse with us in intelligible speech. “Ab”, or ivory-store, was the name of the town Elephantine on the island of that name, and the island remains though even the ruins of the town have almost completely disappeared: “Sun” or Syene was the township on the right bank where the modern Assuan stands. Elephantine was the most southerly harbour of the old Egyptians and the capital of the southern Nile district; it was the ancient depot for produce from the interior, especially for ivory, highly prized then as now. “Sun” was probably only a village of working people, but as such by no means of less importance than Elephantine. For near here, from the earliest times, the “Mat” or “Ethiopian stone” of Herodotus was quarried, and was brought to the river-banks to be loaded on the boats, which bore it to its destination. It was from this place that the valuable stone derived the name of Syenite, which it still bears.[77] Inscriptions which are found on monuments dating from the oldest dynasties of Egyptian kings, that is to say from two or three thousand years before the Christian era, make repeated mention of “Sun”, and countless other hieroglyphics in the adjacent quarries testify to the importance of this industrial village. These quarries extend over many square miles of the desert to the east of the cataract. From them were hewn those immense blocks which form the columns, obelisks, cornices, and lintels of the temples, and fill us with wonder and admiration. With them, too, the ancients roofed in the sepulchral chambers of the pyramids, confident that they would bear the stupendous burden piled above them. “All around us here”, says my learned friend Dümichen, “we see how human hands laboured to loosen the valuable stone from the wall of rock, and to immortalize this or that event in sculpture or inscription. Everywhere the rock has become a memorial of the past, and numerous inscriptions, often on the highest peaks of the mountains, proclaim the glory of the divine trinity worshipped by the first province of Upper Egypt—the Cataract-god Chnum-Ra, and his two consorts Sati and Anuke—or celebrate the exploits of Egyptian kings and high officers of state. Some of these go back to the oldest historic times, and yet how young they seem in comparison with the work, which through innumerable ages the Egyptian Sun-god Ra has wrought upon the stone. For the rocks, all around which are as yet untouched by human hand, present to us a surface covered with a dark crust gleaming like enamel; while the cut surfaces of the syenite (to many of which we may certainly ascribe an age of four thousand years) still show, like the blocks in the quarries, the characteristic red of the granite in its pristine vividness—they are still too young to show the impress of Time’s hand.”

From any of the higher peaks on the banks one can get a survey of a part of the cataract. Two deserts meet at the Nile, and join hands across it by means of hundreds of small rocky islands. Every island splits the stream, forcing it into a narrower channel, through which, however, it rushes all the more violently, ceaselessly dashing against the ruins of the rocky barrier through which it burst hundreds of thousands of years ago. The river seems to be intent on sweeping them away to utter destruction, and to be enraged at finding its opponents still invincible. The thunder of its waters resounds in the ears of the spectator above, and seems to him a fit accompaniment to the magnificent scene beneath him. Restless as the ever-flowing waves, the eye travels over the chaos of rocks; it embraces hundreds of single pictures in one glance, and then combines these into one sublime, harmonious whole, the stiff masses of gleaming rock contrasting sharply with the white foam of the hissing water, the golden-yellow deserts that bound them on either side, and the dark, cloudless sky overhead. The upper region of the rapids is especially charming. A chain of black rocks, the natural boundary-wall between Egypt and Nubia, stretches obliquely across the river, and sweeps out on both right and left bank in a wide curve, thus forming before the eye of the spectator a great basin almost completely surrounded by rocky ramparts. These walls consist in part of continuous masses, but in part also of loose blocks—round, oval, and angular—lying one upon the other as though piled up by the hand of some giant. Here and there portions of this wonderful rampart project and again recede; here and there they rise like islands from the bed of the ancient lake which they encircled before the mighty stream broke its way through.

In the midst of these prehistoric ruins lies the green, palm-clad island of Philæ with its stately temple. I know of no more impressive picture than this. Surrounded by dark, rugged rocks, encompassed by the ceaseless roar of the waves as they beat on its foundations, bedecked with fruitful palms and fragrant mimosas, the temple stands—a striking emblem of inner peace amid raging strife. The river shouts its mighty battle-song; the palms wave back an answer of peace. A worthier place could scarcely be found for the worship of the great god to whom it was dedicated. Amid such solitude, and in such an environment, the spirit of the youths whom the wise priests taught must surely have found both nurture and life, must surely have turned to what is high and holy, have recognized the kernel within the sensory symbolism of their cult, and have beheld the veiled image of Sais.

In the sacred trinity—Isis, Osiris, and Horus—to whom the temple of Philæ was dedicated, Isis stood supreme. “Isis, the great goddess, the queen of heaven, sovereign of all gods and goddesses, who with her son Horus and her brother Osiris is worshipped in every city; the exalted, divine mother, the spouse of Osiris, she is the queen of Philæ.” Such is the tenor of the inscriptions in the temple itself. But records in all the different kinds of writing that were in use at various epochs of Egyptian history tell also of the changes which have befallen the temple in the course of ages, down to the time when the Christian priests, who had succeeded the servants of Isis, were driven from the sanctuary by hordes of immigrant Arabs.

To-day the greater part of Philæ is in ruins. Instead of the solemn chant of the priests, one hears only the simple song of the desert-lark; but the waves of the stream still roar in their strength as they did thousands of years ago. The island is desolate, but the peace of the temple has remained to it. And, in spite of all changes, island and temple are still the jewel of the first cataract.[78]

For some distance upwards from this point the Nile is free from rocks, yet quite incapable of bestowing its blessing upon the shore. Laboriously man endeavours to force from the stream what is elsewhere so lavishly bestowed. Wheel after wheel creaks as it raises the life-giving water to the narrow fringe of cultivation along the banks. But in most places the desert and the rocks press so closely on the river that no space is left for field or grove of palms. For long stretches one sees nothing but stunted weeds, between which the yellow drift-sand rolls ceaselessly down, as though it would help the desert even here to a victory over the sacred giver of fruitful land.

To the south of Wady Halfa, the most southern village of the tract above mentioned, the stream again rages among impeding rocky islands. Countless masses of stone, blocks and cones of rock, compel the river to divide its forces; the eye is bewildered by a chaos of rock and water, the like of which is to be seen nowhere else. When the water is high, the roar of the waves whirling and surging between the rocks drowns the human voice; the river rumbles and thunders, rages and blusters, dashes and hisses, so that the very rocks appear to quake.

Beyond the rapids and whirlpools, which at this point are almost continuous, the full-swollen Nile lies like a broad, calm lake; but this pleasant picture, enhanced by the presence of several green islands, is circumscribed by narrow limits. For, further up, the bed of the stream is again divided by countless rocky islands, which mark the beginning of the “Batte el Hadjar”, or “rocky valley” of the boatmen, in which lie no less than ten considerable rapids. It is by far the dreariest region in Nubia, or in the whole Nile valley. From the river there is usually nothing to be seen but sky and water, rock and sand. The rocks rise steeply, sometimes almost vertically, on either bank, and between them and the countless islands the Nile is so cooped up that during its flood-time it reaches a height of 40 to 50 feet above its lowest level.

The rocky banks of the stream are as smooth as if they had been polished; they gleam and glow by day as if they had just left the earth’s fiery interior. The beneficent stream rushes over them, leaving scarcely a trace behind; indeed, only in a very few places can it possibly exercise its prerogative of blessing. Here and there, in receding creeks, or behind projecting bastions, which divert the violent current, the river deposits its fertile mud and may carry a few seeds to a resting-place. Then, even in this wilderness, there is germination and growth, foliage and flowers. On all the islands in whose rocky clefts mud has been caught and kept, and in all the inlets which the current does not sweep, there is a growth of willows and scattered mimosas, evidences of life in the realm of death. When a willow has found a foothold it sends out root after root, shoot after shoot, and soon the naked ground is clothed in enlivening green. While the water is low the willows gradually spread; when the flood comes the waves roll over both island and willow-beds. Higher and higher rises the stream, fiercer and stronger press the waves; the willows bow before them, but keep firm hold of the rocks. For months the flood buries them, all but a few twigs which project above the boiling, hissing waves; yet the roots hold fast, and the shrubs sprout with renewed vigour as soon as the flood subsides. In such pleasant spots, amid the dreary waste, signs of animal life are to be seen, as in some other parts of the Nile valley. Here and there among the willows a pair of Nile-geese have settled, lively and clamorous; on the rock above, the pretty water-wagtail has made its home; from the shore cliffs sounds the song of the blue rock-thrush or the black wheatear; on the blossoming mimosas a gorgeous sun-bird—the first tropical bird one meets—is busily at work; and now and then one may come upon a flock of pretty little rock-partridges. These, and a few others, form the sparse fauna of the rocky valley, but during the migrating season they are often joined by large flocks of birds, who make the course of the stream their highway to the interior, and rest here and there on the journey. But they hasten on again at their utmost speed, since the rocky valley is incapable of supporting them even for a few days; indeed, it is often difficult to understand where they find their daily bread.

But these are not the only settlers in this wilderness of waters. Even men are able to find a home here. At intervals of a mile or more one comes upon a miserable straw hut, in which a Nubian and his family eke out a meagre subsistence. A small creek between the precipices on the shore filled with fertile mud, or it may be only a deposit of mud upon the rocks themselves, forms the paltry farm which he cultivates. The owner of a creek is rich compared with his poor neighbour who can call himself master only of a mere mud-bed. At the risk of his life the latter swims to spots which are inaccessible on foot, and sows some beans on the mud-plot from which the falling stream has just receded. Some days later, when the river has sunk still lower, he repeats his visit and his sowing operations, and so proceeds on the parts of the mud-bank successively uncovered as long as the river continues to fall. Thus at such places one sees fields of beans at all stages of growth, becoming broader as the water sinks; and the frugal husbandman is engaged at once with sowing and reaping. In the most favourable circumstances a deeply receding inlet, filled with Nile mud, makes it possible for the farmer to erect a water-wheel and to irrigate a field a few acres in extent. The fortunate possessor is then able to keep a cow, and to live at least in tolerable comfort, although he is still so poor that even the Egyptian government does not venture to burden him with taxes. But such places are rare oases in this forbidding waste. The boatman, fighting his way up-stream, welcomes every bush; he greets a palm-tree with manifest joy, a bean-field, perhaps hoped for all day long, with exultation, a water-wheel with thanks to the All-merciful. For it is not merely that his bold spirit has learned to know fear in this valley of rocks, but also because he knows well that, should his supply of provisions fail, bitter want would befall him, and starvation stare him in the face. Down-stream the well-steered boat speeds rapidly through this land of desolation and poverty; but sailing up-stream it often lies, as if spell-bound, for hours, or even days, at a time, waiting for a favourable wind, sheltered by a rock from the force of a rapid. The boatman, who becomes “sea-sick” with the incessant rocking of his craft, may roam or swim for miles without coming upon men or fields.

At its southern limit the rocky valley passes almost abruptly into the fertile country of middle Nubia. Before the traveller lies a narrow basin shut in by two deserts, and with several large islands in its midst. The basin is filled with mud, and of this the islands are composed. Though we do not yet find all the wealth of tropical life, there are hints of it in the freshness and vigour of both fauna and flora. Almost continuous palm-groves, in which ripen the most delicious dates in the world, border this pleasant oasis in which the labours of the husbandman are rewarded by rich harvests. Christ-thorns and various mimosas, not hitherto seen, give evidence that we have crossed the equator. Besides the sun-bird already mentioned, there are now other birds characteristic of the interior of Africa. In the first dhurra-field which one carefully observes, the eyes are gladdened by a sight of the fiery weaver-bird, as beautiful as it is agile, which has its home among the stems, and from time to time appears like a flash of fire on the top of an ear, uttering from this perch its simple whirring and buzzing song, and inciting others of its kind to a like display. In the holes and crevices of the mud-huts other members of the family, especially steel-finches and blood-finches, have established themselves; in the gardens round the houses the cape-pigeons have settled; on the sand-banks in the stream have been hollowed out the shallow mud-nests of the shear-waters or skimmers—night-terns, of peculiar habit, who do not begin to seek their prey until the twilight, and fish, not by diving, but by skimming over the waves and rapidly ploughing the water with their bills, thus catching small creatures which swim on or near the surface.

But this cheerful region has narrow limits. Below the ruined temple of Barkal the desolate and barren hills again encroach on the river, excluding fertile land and steppe alike. The last group of rapids now lies before the traveller who is making his way up-stream. The region of the third group of cataracts is not so unutterably poor as the rocky valley. Well-tilled, though narrow, strips of land lie on either bank, and there are fertile islands in mid-stream; thus there is not that look of hopeless poverty which is characteristic of the region already traversed. The masses of rock on the banks are more broken up than those in the rocky valley, and there are many of the so-called “stone-seas”, hillocks and walls of wildly jumbled blocks and rolled stones, such as mighty streams leave behind when they dig their bed deeper in the valley. On each side, usually on the top of the cliff next the stream, there are great blocks of more than a hundred cubic yards in bulk, which rest so loosely on their substratum that they oscillate in violent wind, and could be hurled down by a few men with levers. In many places these stone-seas present a most extraordinary appearance. It seems just as if giants had for a whim amused themselves by erecting cones and pyramids, mounds and ramparts to form a weirdly-disordered parapet on the river’s rocky embankment. But it is not so much to this strange natural architecture as to ancient works of man’s own hand, that the third group of rapids owes its characteristic appearance. On all suitable rock-projections, and especially on the larger islands, rise buildings with inclosing walls, towers, and jagged battlements, such as are not seen elsewhere in the Nile valley. These are fortifications of ancient days, castles of the river-chiefs, erected for protection and defiance, to secure life and property against the invasions of hostile neighbouring tribes. The ramparts and battlements are built of unhewn stones, rudely piled one upon the other, usually cemented only with Nile mud; the thick walls of the superstructure, roofed with sun-dried mud-tiles, have for the most part fallen or are still falling. These fortresses impress one not so much by their architecture as by the boldness of their position. A naked, deep-black, glistening rock rises from the midst of the rushing waters, and bears on its summit one of these forts. The waves beat wildly around its base, but it stands absolutely unshaken by any flood, and towers aloft, an impregnable refuge. On the down-stream side, in the shelter of the rock, the life-giving stream has added beauty to sublimity. For in the course of ages the mud accumulated in the still-water, and an island gradually rose above the flood. On this fertile island man planted palms and laid out fields; and thus, among the rocks there arose a pleasing scene of security and comfort, all the more impressive in its contrast to the wilderness of restless water and barren rock.

At the southern boundary of the third group of rapids begin the steppes and forests of tropical Africa, in which rocks are found only here and there on the banks of the main stream and its great tributaries. For over 450 miles the Bahr-el-Abiad and Bahr-el-Azrek, the White and the Blue Nile, flow through a fruitful and almost flat country; thereafter there are again some rapids. But they do not belong to the picture whose chief outlines I have been endeavouring to sketch: Nubia alone is the land of the Nile cataracts.

While it is difficult to tell to what degree the Nubian has been influenced by his surroundings, or made by them the manner of man he is, this at least may be safely said, that he is as markedly differentiated from his neighbour, the modern Egyptian, as his home is different from the land of Egypt. The truth is, they have nothing in common, neither race nor speech, neither customs nor habits, scarcely even religion, although both to-day repeat the creed, “There is but one God, and Mohammed is His prophet”.

The modern Egyptians are of mixed blood, being descended from the ancient Egyptians and the immigrant Arabic hordes from Yemen and Hedjaz, who amalgamated with the earlier inhabitants of the lower Nile valley. The Nubians are descendants of the “wild Blemyes”, with whom the Pharaohs of the ancient, middle, and more recent dynasties, as well as the Egyptian governors of the Ptolemies, contended ceaselessly, and by no means always successfully. The former use the language in which the “Revelations” of Mohammed are recorded, the latter use an old Ethiopian speech now split up into several dialects; the former employ an ancient mode of writing, the latter never have had any which has taken organic root in their own language. The former still preserve the seriousness at once characteristic of the old Egyptians, and of the sons of the desert from whom they sprang. Like all Orientals they give themselves, throughout their whole life, deep anxiety about the world to come, and order their customs and habits according to their fantastic notions of it. The Nubians, on the other hand, have preserved the cheerful joyousness of the Ethiopians, living like children for the present, taking what is pleasant without thanks and what is painful with loud complainings, and under the influence of the moment readily forgetting both. The yoke of foreign masters rests heavily on both alike; the Egyptian bears it with groaning and grumbling, the Nubian with equanimity and without resistance; the former is a sullen slave, the latter a willing servant. Every Egyptian fancies himself high above the Nubian, regards himself as nobler in race, speech, and customs; boasts of his culture, though that is restricted to but a few of the people, and seeks to oppress the dark-skinned race as completely as he himself is oppressed. The Nubian recognizes the general physical superiority of the Egyptian, and thoroughly acknowledges the intellectual culture of the prominent members of the neighbour-people, but he seems to be scarcely conscious of his own deficiency in culture, and is even inclined, in his turn, to enslave the less strong or less gifted people of the interior. Yet even with the purchased negro he is on a brotherly footing, and seems to have patiently submitted to his burdensome fate, after having tried in vain to contend successfully against a superior force. In every fibre of his being he is still a child of nature, while the Egyptian seems the sad type of a decayed and still decadent people. The Nubian, in the most barren country in the world, still retains a measure of freedom; the Egyptian, on the richest of soils, has become a slave, who is not likely ever to venture to shake off his chains, though he still talks vaingloriously of the greatness of his past.

In point of fact, the Nubian has as much right, if not more, to glory in the exploits of his ancestors and to fortify his soul in recounting their prowess. For these ancestors fought bravely not only with the Pharaohs and the Romans, but also with the Turks and the Arabs—the governing and subject races of modern Egypt[79]—nor would they have been overcome had they not been without fire-arms. At the time of my first visit to the Nile, eye-witnesses of some of the last battles were still alive, and from their lips I learned enough to enable me to do justice, in one respect at least, to a manly, much misjudged people. The events to which I refer took place in the beginning of the third decade of this century.

After Mohammed-Aali, the energetic but unscrupulous and even cruel founder of the family now ruling in Egypt, had, in March 1811, treacherously fallen upon and massacred the chiefs of the Mamelukes whom he had invited to meet him, his mastery of the Lower Nile seemed assured. But the proud warriors, whose leaders had been done to death by shameful stratagem and unworthy breach of faith, were not completely subjugated. Brooding revenge, the Mamelukes chose new leaders and betook themselves to Nubia, there to collect their forces, to renew the combat with their artful foe, or at least to threaten him. Mohammed-Aali recognized the danger, and delayed not to meet it. His army followed the still-scattered troops of the Mamelukes. The latter, too weak to venture open battle, were forced to take to the river-forts, where, fighting desperately and defiant of death, they fell to a man. The Nubians were conquered at the same time, and, submitting to their fate, were condemned to servitude. Only the brave race of the warlike Sheikier resisted. In 1820 they met the Turkish-Egyptian army near the village of Korti—an heroic but undisciplined people, accustomed to win victory with lance, sword, and shield, against well-drilled soldiers equipped with fire-arms. According to ancient custom the women were present at the battle to stimulate the combatants with their shrill battle-cry, to raise the children aloft in their arms, that the fathers, seeing them, might be fired to deeds defiant of death.

The Nubians fought in a manner worthy of their sires; bravely they pressed forward against the artillery, which wrought fell destruction in their ranks. Mightily they smote with their long swords at the supposed monsters, leaving the deep impress of their sharp blades on the brazen barrels of the cannons; but the Egyptians conquered. Not bravery, but superiority of weapons won the day. Amid screams of woe from the women, the brown warriors took to flight. But the former, possessed by a wild despair, preferring glorious death to shameful servitude, pressed their children to their breasts and threw themselves in hundreds into the river, which the blood of their husbands had reddened. The deserts on both sides of the stream prevented the fugitives from reaching any refuge, and finally there was nothing left to them but to surrender and to bend their hitherto unbowed necks under the yoke of the conqueror.

Only once again did the old heroic spirit burst into clear flames. One of the chiefs, who is already celebrated in the saga of Melik el Nimmr, or “the panther-king”, collected his people at Shendy in South Nubia, for the lash of the cruel conqueror had become unbearable. Suspicious of his intentions, Ismael Pasha, son of the Egyptian governor and commander of the forces, set out against him, and making use of all available boats, appeared at Shendy before Melik Nimmr had by any means completed his preparations. Impossible demands were made in order to compel Melik Nimmr to absolute subjection. He, recognizing the impending ruin, braced himself for action. While he feigned submission, his messengers hastened from hut to hut stirring into flames the sparks of insurrection which glimmered everywhere beneath the ashes. By crafty representations he induced Ismael Pasha to leave the security of his ship. He lured him to the roomy though straw-thatched royal dwelling, surrounded by a thick hedge of thorns and by immense heaps of straw which, according to the panther-king’s assurance, were intended to supply the camel-fodder which the Pasha demanded.

A splendid feast, such as Ismael has never seen, will Melik Nimmr give to his lord and master. He begs leave to invite all the officers of the Egyptian army, and receives the Pasha’s permission. Captains, officers, and staff are gathered to the feast in the king’s humble palace. Outside the fence of thorns sounds the tarabuka, the drum of the country which calls to the dance, as also to the battle. The young folk, festively anointed, engage in a merry war-dance. Hurled lances whirr through the air, and are deftly caught on the small shields of the company of dancers ranged opposite. Long swords are whirled dexterously, and as skilfully warded off. Ismael is mightily delighted with the handsome, dusky youths, the graceful movements of their supple limbs, the boldness of their attack, the security of their defence. Thicker and thicker becomes the whirling throng in front of the banquet-hall, more and more sword-dancers appear, more violent and riotous become their movements, and more rapidly beat the drums. Then suddenly the tarabuka changes its tone; it is echoed a hundred-fold in all quarters of Shendy, and not less in the neighbouring villages on this side and on that side of the river. A great cry of rage in the highest notes of women’s voices fills the air; and women naked to the loins, with dust and ashes on their oil-soaked hair, bearing firebrands in their hands, rush upon the king’s hall, hurling their brands on the walls and on the surrounding heaps of straw. A monstrous sheaf of fire shoots up to heaven, and amid the flames, resounding with cries of horror and woe, of execration and rage, the death-dealing lances of the dancers fly in thousands. Neither Ismael Pasha nor any of his feasting comrades escape a horrible death.

It was as if champions of the down-trodden people had risen from the ground. Whoever could bear weapons turned against the cruel enemy; women, forgetful of their sex, joined the ranks of the combatants; girls and boys strove with the strength and endurance of men towards the common end. Shendy and Metamme were in one night freed of all their foes. Only a few of the Egyptians, quartered in the distant villages, escaped the bath of blood, and brought the gruesome news to the second commander, then stationed in Kordofan.

He, Mohammed-Bei el Defterdar, still spoken of by the Nubians as “el Djelad” or the devil, hastened with all his forces to Shendy, defeated the Nubians for the second time, and glutted his revenge by the slaughter of more than half the population of the unhappy country. The “panther-king” succeeded in escaping to Abyssinia; but his subjects had to bow under the foreign yoke, and their children “grew up”, to use the expression of my informant, “in the blood of their fathers”. Since these misfortunes the Nubians have remained submissive thralls of their oppressors.

The Nubians, or, as they call themselves, the Barabra, are a people of medium height, slim, and well-proportioned, with relatively small, well-formed hands and feet, with generally pleasant features, characterized by almond-shaped eyes, a high, straight or curved nose, slightly broadened only at the lobes, a small mouth, fleshy lips, an arched forehead, and a long chin. Their hair is fine, slightly curled but not woolly; the colour of their skin varies from bronze to dark-brown. They have a good carriage, their walk is light and elastic, and their other movements nimble and graceful. Thus they contrast very favourably with the negroes of the Upper Nile valley, and even with the Fungis of Eastern Soudan. The men shave the hair of the head either altogether, or all but a tuft at the top, and wear a tightly-fitting white cap, the takhie, over which on holidays a white cloth may be twisted like a turban. The clothing consists of a shawl, six to nine yards in length, wound around the upper part of the body, short breeches and sandals, and an additional blue or white robe-like garment on holidays. A dagger is carried on the left arm, and, when journeying, they also carry a lance. Leather rolls, which are said to contain amulets, and a little pocket, hung round the neck with cords, are the only ornaments worn by the men. The women arrange their hair in hundreds of small thin plaits, which they soak with mutton fat, butter, or castor-oil, thus diffusing an odour which to our nostrils seems almost unendurable; they tattoo various parts of their face and body with indigo; their lips are often dyed blue, and their palms always red. They adorn their necks with beads of glass, amber, and cornelian, amulet-pockets, and the like, their ankles with bangles of tinware, ivory, or horn, their ears, nostrils, and fingers with rings of silver. An apron reaching to the ankle is worn round the loins instead of trousers, and the shawl is wound in picturesque folds around breast and shoulders. The boys go naked until their sixth or eighth year; the girls wear from their fourth year an exceedingly becoming tassel-apron, made of fine strips of leather, and often decorated with glass-beads or shells.

All the Nubians settled in the valley of the river live in four-cornered huts, more or less cubical in form. The walls are sometimes built of sun-dried bricks, and then they slope slightly inwards as they ascend, or the house may consist of a light wooden framework covered with straw. Usually there is but one room with a low door, and often the windows are represented only by air-holes: in fact the whole arrangements are of the simplest. The furnishings consist of a raised couch—the aukareb—with a cover of interwoven strips of leather or bast; simple chests; well-finished, even water-tight baskets; leather-bags; vessels for holding water, dhurra beer, and palm wine; hand-mills or stones for grinding the grain; iron or earthen plates, slightly hollowed on the surface, for baking bread; hollow gourds, a hatchet, a gimlet, several mattocks, and the like. Mats, curtains, screens, and coverlets are accessories; bowls, flat woven dishes and their lids are luxuries which not every house possesses. The food consists chiefly, sometimes almost exclusively, of vegetable produce, milk, butter, and eggs. The grain, which is more frequently rubbed than ground, is worked into dough, and baked into a doughy bread. This may be eaten alone without any relish, or along with milk, or with thick mucilaginous soups made of various plants. To the latter may be added numerous pungent spices and some shreds of flesh, which has been dried in strips in the sun. The Nubian is more keen for drink than for food, and of every intoxicating liquor, whether of native or foreign origin, he always shows an eager, not to say excessive, appreciation.

The habits and customs of the inhabitants of the middle Nile valley display a remarkable amalgamation of inherited and acquired characters. Taciturn and carelessly pliant, the Nubian seems as willing to adapt himself to what is new as to forget the traditions of his home. Worshipper of Islam more in name than in reality, he is as innocent of strict adherence to the tenets of his creed as of intolerance towards those of another faith. Until he has reached mature manhood or old age, he seldom or never respects the commandments of the Prophet with the conscientiousness of Arab or Turk. He circumcises his boys, gives his daughters in marriage, treats his wives, buries his dead, and celebrates the feasts according to the laws of Islam; but he thinks that he has done quite enough if he observes the external regulations of his cult. Song and dance, amusing conversation, jokes, and a drinking revel, please him better than the precepts and commandments of the Koran; he has no mind to engage in monastic exercises of faith and penitence, nor even in the fasts which other Mohammedans hold so sacred.

At the same time, no one can call the Nubian weak-willed, fickle, servile, untrustworthy, treacherous, or, in short, bad. In lower Nubia, where he constantly meets with hundreds of travellers, rich in his eyes, and free-handed, he of course frequently becomes a shameless, indeed an unendurable beggar; and the strangers whom he importunes, because his poor land will not support him, do not tend to ennoble him. On the whole, however, he may fairly be called an honest fellow. One misses, it is true, the strength of will characteristic of his fathers, but spirit and courage are by no means lacking. He is gentler and more good-natured than the Egyptian, and not less trustworthy and enduring when he has to face difficult or dangerous tasks. In his poor, unproductive country his whole being is rooted. Of it he thinks with pathetic constancy when in a strange land; he labours, pinches, and saves with the one desire to pass his manhood and old age at home; and this desire, which compels him to a ceaseless struggle for existence, gives strength to both body and soul. The raging stream, with which he contends not less persistently than with the rocky land, arouses and preserves his courage and self-reliance, just as it develops his calm confidence in face of danger. Thanks to the qualities thus acquired, the Nubian is a trusty servant, a reliable companion, a restless djellabi or merchant, and, above all, an adventurous, fearless boatman.

It almost seems as if the parents disciplined their sons from their earliest years in all the services which they may have to discharge when grown up. As in Egypt, so in Nubia the children of the poor are hardly educated at all; they are at most urged to work, or rather are utilized according to the measure of their strength. However small the boy, he must do his work and fulfil his allotted task; however tender the girl, she must help her mother in the many duties which are laid upon the women of the land. But whereas in Egypt they scarcely allow the children any recreation, in Nubia merry games are as far as possible encouraged. In Egypt the boy becomes a thrall and the girl his slave, without ever knowing the joys of childhood; in Nubia even those who are more than half grown-up are often still children alike in their disposition and in their ways. Thus the Egyptian youths seem to us as unnaturally serious as their fathers, while the Nubians are as joyous as their mothers.

Every traveller becomes familiar with a favourite game, which he cannot watch without delight, for it displays agility and grace of movement in combination with endurance and the spirit of adventure. It is the universal game of “Hare and Hounds” or “Follow my leader”. After their work is done the boys and girls unite in play. The boys leave the water-wheel around which they have driven the oxen from early morning till dusk, or the field in which they have worked with their father, or the young camel which they have been teaching to trot. The girls leave the younger brothers and sisters whom they have dragged rather than carried about all day, or the dough whose leavening they had to superintend, or the grinding-mill over which they have exerted their young strength. All hasten to the bank of the river. The boys are naked; the girls wear only their tasselled aprons. Laughing and chattering they go; like black ants they swarm on the golden yellow sand, running over and between the dark rocks. Those who are to chase stand picturesquely grouped, until the fugitive gets the requisite start. He gives the sign for the chase to begin, and they are all at his heels. Like a gazelle he speeds over the sandy plain to the nearest rocks, and like hounds in full cry his comrades give chase; like a chamois he climbs aloft upon the rocks, and not less nimbly do his pursuers follow; like a startled beaver he plunges into the stream to hide himself by diving, to escape by swimming, but there too they follow excitedly, both boys and girls, kicking like swimming dogs, halloing and screaming, chattering, laughing, chuckling, like a flock of gabbling ducks. For long the result remains undecided, and it not unfrequently happens that the bold fugitive swims right across the broad river before he falls into the hands of his pursuers. The parents of the merry company look on from the banks, and rejoice in the agility, courage, and endurance which their children display, and even the European is compelled to admit that he never saw creatures more joyous or more vigorous than those slim, dusky, sleek-skinned Nubian children.

From boys who play thus boldly come the men who dare to ply the boatman’s craft among the rapids, to steer their boat down the river hurrying through the valley, with rushing, swirling, boiling, raging waves, and even to sail upwards against these. On many of their journeyings they do not even use a boat, but trust to frail floats of dhurra-stems, or swim with the help of inflated, air-tight skin-bags. These Nubian boatmen and swimmers have looked danger in the face so firmly, and so often, that the waves have never whispered either myth or saga in their ears. They know of no nixies or water-sprites, of no genii, good or bad, and the protecting powers whose help they ask before or during dangerous journeys have but the solemn might of fate, none of the spite of fickle spirits. Thus the saga is dumb in the rapids, in “the Belly of the Rocks”, in the plunging, whirling “Mother of Stones”, in the “Shatterer”, the “Camel’s Neck”, the “Coral”, or whatever the rapid may be called; the saga is dumb, though the whole region seems the fittest home of legends, and the boatman has too often reason to be tempted to believe in spirits who wish ill to human kind.

The rapids are navigated down-stream at high and middle water, up-stream at middle and low water. When the Nile is lowest any boat going down-stream would be shattered; when the flood comes not even the largest sail would impel a vessel of considerable size against the current. At low water hundreds of men are requisitioned to haul one of the all-powerful government’s medium-sized barks up-stream; at the time of flood, they would scarcely be able to find footing on the few unflooded rock-islands on either side of the navigable channel. Full flood is the best time for going down-stream, and middle-water is best for going up, since at this time the regular north winds have set in and render practicable the use of sails.

All the craft specially intended for the rapids are distinguished from other Nile boats by their small size and by peculiarities of build and of rigging. The hull has but few timbers, and the boards are held together by nails driven in obliquely. The sail is not triangular, but four-sided, and fastened to two yards in such a way that from the lower more or less canvas can be unfurled, or spread to the wind. The build and rigging are thoroughly adapted to the conditions. The smallness, especially the shortness of the boat, is adapted to the necessity for sharp turnings; the manner in which the boards are joined gives the hull an elastic flexibility and pliancy which are valuable when the vessel runs aground; the adaptability of the canvas to the strength of the wind and of the current makes it possible to maintain a fairly successful contest against a most variable resistance. Nevertheless no one would willingly go up or down stream alone; the boatmen wisely prefer to go in companies, so that they may aid one another whenever occasion demands.

A fleet of boats plying up-stream presents a beautiful, inspiring picture as it sails away from a landing-place, or from some quiet creek, in which it has rested by night. All the navigable portions of the river show white sails, of which one can see twenty or more gliding among the dark rocks; at first all the craft are about the same distance apart, but soon the variable currents and breezes break their order. One and then another lags farther and farther behind, one and then another shoots ahead of the main body of the fleet, and in the course of an hour there is a wide interval between the first boat and the last. Yet, even with a strong and constant wind, the progress of the voyage is much less than it seems. The waves, indeed, break impetuously on the bow, but the boat has to contend with so strong an opposing current that its forward movement is really slow. It is an art to steer under such conditions, so that the boat may sail as straight as possible, consistent with avoiding the rocks hidden beneath the surface. For every tack means a change in the position of the unwieldy sail, and every time the boat touches a rock a leak is caused. Captain and crew have thus constant employment. Yet their work only begins in earnest when they near one of the countless rapids which have to be overcome. The sail, hitherto but partially unfurled, is now given fully to the wind; the bark pushes its way like a strong steamship through the chaos of rocks and reaches the whirlpool which is found beneath almost all rapids. All the men stand with oars outstretched and ropes in readiness, awaiting the inevitable moment when the boat will be gripped by the whirlpool and drawn into its vortex. At the skipper’s bidding the oars on one side dip into the water, on the other side long poles are thrust out to keep the boat off the rocks, while the sail, skilfully handled by the most experienced sailors, is taken in or let out, turned and twisted, as the circumstances demand. Once, twice, six times, ten times, they try in vain to cut through the whirlpool; at last they succeed and the boat reaches the lower end of the water-rush. But here it stops as if spell-bound; the pressure of the current equals that on the sails. The wind rises, and the vessel moves on a few yards; the pressure on the sail slackens again, and the waves drive it back to its former place. The contest with the whirling waves recommences, and again the boat is worsted. At last it reaches the desired goal, and must hold to it. One of the crew grips a rope in his teeth, plunges into the midst of the wild surge, and dragging the heavy rope behind him seeks to gain a rock which rises above the raging waves some little distance ahead. The waves hurl him back, cover and overwhelm him, but he continues his efforts, until it becomes plain that he must yield to the superior force of the stream. He gives up the struggle and is pulled by the rope back to the boat. Again the whirling waves, so strong to destroy, play with the frail structure which ventures to oppose them; and at last the wind gives the victory to the boat. But suddenly a portentous crash is heard; the steersman loses his footing and is projected into the stream; the boat has struck on one of the hidden rocks. With the utmost speed one of the crew gets hold of the rudder, a second throws a rope and a bladder to the struggling steersman, and without a moment’s delay the rest jump into the hold, and with hammer, chisel, and tow seek to repair the leak which they are sure to find. The man at the rudder endeavours to save the vessel from further mischance; the drenched steersman clambers up with an “El hamdi lillahi!” or “Thank God!” more grumbling than grateful; the rest hammer and plug the gaping leak, one even surrendering his shirt to eke out the scanty tow. Once more the boat sails through whirl and wave, rocking, creaking, groaning like a storm-tossed ship; once more it reaches the rapids; once more it is arrested between wind and current. Two sailors spring overboard at once, and, fighting against the stream with all their strength, at last succeed in gaining the rock. They surround it with one end of the rope and signal to the others to pull the boat up. This done, the vessel is moored to the rock, and there it hangs in the midst of the wild rush of waters, rocking so violently and continuously that it causes nausea. A second boat draws near and asks for assistance. A rope is floated down on a bladder, and thus time and trouble are saved. Soon the second also reaches the rock, a third follows, and a fourth, and all dance up and down together in the tumult. And now the united strength of the crews is sufficient to effect a successful passage. One of the boats is manned with double the normal crew; the other boatmen swim, and wade, and climb, dragging the rope to another rock further ahead, and, with all the help that the sail can give, one boat after another is pulled through the rushing waters of the rapid. Now and then at certain places the sail alone is sufficient to carry the boat up, but in such cases a lull of the wind not unfrequently endangers both craft and crew. Often, too, boats are forced to linger in the midst of the tumult for hours or even days, waiting for a favourable wind. Then one may see a tiny bark hanging behind every jagged rock, all alike unable to help their neighbours.

Several times I have been forced to make my bed on one of the black rocks amid-stream, for the violent rocking of the boat in the rapids made sleep an impossibility. A stranger sleeping-place can scarcely be imagined. The ground on which one lies seems to tremble before the assaults of the flood; the roaring and bellowing, hissing and splashing, rumbling and thundering of the waves drowns every other sound; one sits or lies on a rug with his comrades without uttering a word. Every blast of wind drives the spray like a fleeting mist across the rock island. The glowing camp-fire throws a weird light on the rock, and on the dark water foaming around its ragged edges; the falls and whirlpools in the shade seem even more gruesome than they are. At times one cannot help fancying that they open a hundred jaws to engulf the poor child of man. But his confidence is firm as the rock on which he rests. The mighty stream may thunder as it will, the seething waves may rage and foam, he is safe on a rock which has defied the flood for ages. But what if the rope break, and the boat be hurled and shattered on the nearest rocks? Then another will come to take the shipwrecked crew ashore! In spite of these and similar thoughts, and in spite of the ceaseless roar, the traveller can sleep, and sleep tranquilly too. For danger lends courage, and courage brings confidence, and the thunder of the waves becomes at length a lullaby to the wearied ear. And on the ensuing morning what an awakening! In the east the sky is suffused with red, the ancient giant-rocks wear a purple cloak on their shoulders, and shine in gleaming light, as if they were clad in burnished steel. Sunshine and shadow flit over the dark reefs and through the gullies filled with golden-yellow sand, and over all is thrown the marvellous, indescribably beautiful, colour-garment of the desert. Thousands and thousands of water-pearls shine and sparkle, and the mighty river rolls out its mighty melody, which is ever the same and yet eternally new. Such a glory, such a harmony, fills the heart with contentment and rapture. The morning is spent in devotional contemplation of this glorious spectacle, for it is not till forenoon that the wind begins to blow from the north and fill the sails. Work and danger, toil and struggle, hazard and anxiety, begin anew; and thus one day follows another, and rapid after rapid is at length overcome.

The voyage up-stream is dangerous and tedious; the voyage down-stream has no parallel in perilousness, such a mad rush is it through flood and rapid, whirlpool and eddy, cataract and gorge,—an exciting game in which life is the stake.

Voyages down-stream through the region of the rapids are only undertaken by the special boats which are made for the purpose in the Soudan. About ten per cent are smashed on the voyage, and that the percentage of deaths is not equally high is simply due to the matchless swimming powers of the Nubian boatmen. Even when they are dashed by the waves against a rock they do not always drown; usually they are like ducks in the water, and reach the shore in safety.

Let me try to give a faithful picture of one of these down-stream voyages.

Six new boats, built of the much-prized heavy mimosa-wood which sinks in water, are moored to the shore at the southern limit of the third group of rapids. The men who compose their crews are lying on sandy places between the black rocks, where they have spent the night. It is still early morning and the camp is quiet; only the river roars and murmurs in the solitude. As day dawns the sleepers awake; one after another descends to the stream, and performs the ablutions ordained to accompany morning prayer. After the prescribed prayer has been uttered from “preface” to “conclusion”, they refresh themselves with a frugal breakfast. Then old and young betake themselves to the tomb of a sheikh or saint, whose white dome gleams among the light-green mimosas, there to offer a special petition for a fortunate voyage. In this they are led by the eldest Reis, or steersman, who represents the Imam. Returning to the river, they observe an ancient heathen custom of throwing some dates, as an offering, into the waves.

At length each skipper orders his men to their posts. “Let go the sail! Row, men, row—row in the name of God, the All-Merciful,” he shouts. Thereupon he strikes up a song, with an ever-recurring refrain; one of the rowers takes it up and sings verse after verse; and all the rest accompany him with the rhythmically repeated words: “Help us, help us, O Mohammed, help us, God’s messenger and prophet!”

Slowly the bark gains the middle of the stream; quicker and ever quicker it glides onwards; in a few minutes it is rushing, more swiftly than ever, among the rocky islands above the rapid. “O Said, give us good cheer,” says the Reis, while the sailors go on singing as before. More and more quickly the oars dip into the turbid flood; the men, who were freshly anointed yesterday, are naked to the loins, and the sweat pours down their bodies as they strain every muscle. Praise and blame, flattery and reproaches, promises and threats, blessings and curses, fall from the skipper’s mouth according as the boat fulfils or disappoints his wishes. The strokes of the oars, pulled at full strength, follow each other more quickly still, though their purpose is solely to direct the otherwise exceedingly rapid course of the boat, and, as they often increase the danger they seek to avoid, the Reis may be excused if he exhausts all the hortatory vocabulary at his command in his desire to stimulate his crew. “Bend to your oars; work, work, my sons: show your strength, ye children and grandchildren of heroes; display your prowess, ye brave; exert your strength, ye giants; do honour to the prophet, all ye faithful! Oh, for the merieza! Oh, for the scented damsels of Dongola! Oh, for the delights of Cairo; all shall be yours. Larboard, I say, ye dogs, ye children of dogs, ye grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and litter of dogs, ye Christians, ye heathen, ye Jews, ye Kaffres, ye fire-worshippers. Ah! ye rascals, ye swindlers, ye thieves, ye villains, ye vagabonds, do you call this rowing? First oar, starboard! are there women hanging about you? Third oar, larboard! throw overboard the weaklings who are misleading you. That’s right, well done; bravo, ye strong, supple, clever youths; God bless you, brave fellows, and give your fathers joy and your children His blessing. Better, better, better yet, ye cowards, ye strengthless, ye sapless, ye miserable, ye pitiable—Allah damn you all in His righteous wrath, ye—ye—Help us, help us, O Mohammed.” Such is the torrent which rushes uninterruptedly from the skipper’s lips, and all his commands and cries, entreaties and execrations, are uttered with the utmost seriousness, and enforced with appropriate gestures of hand, and foot, and head.