Wanderings in Three Continents (2024)

WANDERINGS IN
THREE CONTINENTS

BY THE LATE

CAPTAIN SIR RICHARD F. BURTON, K.C.M.G.

EDITED, WITH A PREFACE, BYW. H. WILKINS, M.A., F.S.A.EDITOR OF THE BURTON MSS.AND AUTHOR OF “THE ROMANCEOF ISABEL LADYBURTON,” ETC.

WITH A PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT AND

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. D. MᶜCORMICK

London: HUTCHINSON & CO

Paternoster Row 1901

PREFACE

BURTON was a many-sided man. The followingvolume of posthumous essays reveals him inthe aspect in which he was best known to the world—​asa traveller and explorer. It will add comparativelylittle to the knowledge of the Burton student; tothe general reader it will contain much that is new,for though Burton wrote and published many bulkyvolumes of travel in years gone by, none of themassumed a popular form, and it may be doubted ifany, save his “Pilgrimage to Meccah and El Medinah,”reached the outer circle of the great reading public.Most of his books are now out of copyright, manyare out of print, and few are easily obtainable. Thisvolume, therefore, will supply a need, in that it givesin a popular form a consensus of his most importanttravels in three continents. It will also, I hope,remind his countrymen of the achievements of thisremarkable man, and bring home to many a deepersense of what we have lost in him. This was theview taken by Lady Burton, who had hoped toincorporate these essays in her memorial edition of“The Labours and Wisdom of Sir Richard Burton,”a work cut short by her death. Upon me, therefore,has devolved the task of editing them and preparingthem for publication. They form the second volumeof the Burton MSS. which have been published sinceLady Burton’s death, and I am the more encouragedto give them to the world by the success whichattended the previous volume, “The Jew, the Gypsy,and El Islam.” The reception of this book, thoughpublished under obvious difficulties, and eight yearsafter the author’s death, showed that the interest inthe great traveller’s work was in no degree abated.

The essays that follow were all prepared by Burtonhimself, and most of them were read by him in theform of lectures before sundry geographical andscientific societies at different times. For instance,the description of his expeditions to El Medinah,Meccah, Harar, and Dahomé were delivered byhim as a course of four lectures before the Emperorand Empress of Brazil at Rio in 1866. The accountof his Central African expedition was read, I believe,at Bath, the one on Damascus and Palmyra atEdinburgh, the one on the Mormons in London. Ihave deleted the local and topical allusions, whicharose from the circ*mstances under which they weredelivered; I have filled in a word or two wherethe notes were too sketchy; but that is all.Otherwise, the manuscript is reproduced exactly asit left the author’s hands. In his own words,simply and unaffectedly, Burton here gives anepitome of his principal travels in three continents.

In this condensed form the essays necessarilylose something. On the other hand, they gain much.Careful and accurate as all Burton’s books of travelwere, his passion for detail sometimes led him intotediousness. He crammed his notebooks so fullthat he had occasionally a difficulty in digestingthe large mass of information he had acquired. Hewas addicted to excessive annotation. For instance,in his book on the Mormons, the large text occupiedon some pages only three lines, the rest of thepage being broken up by closely printed notes,extracts from Mormon books and sermons, whichcan only be considered as superfluous. Extraneousmatter of this kind has been omitted here, and theresult is a clear gain to the narrative.

The book covers the period from 1853 to 1870,the most active years of Burton’s active life. Itopens most fitly with an account of his pilgrimageto El Medinah and Meccah. This famous expeditionwas the turning-point of Burton’s career; in a senseit may be said to have been the beginning of it.Though he had already shown much promise andsome performance, and was known to many in Indiaas a linguist, soldier, writer, and man of unusualability, he was yet unknown to the greater worldoutside. But after his pilgrimage to Meccah hisfame became world-wide and enduring. I say thisin no spirit of exaggeration. When all that Burtonwrote and wrought has passed away into thatlimbo of forgetfulness which awaits the labours ofeven the most distinguished among us, this at leastwill be remembered to his honour, that he wasthe first Englishman to penetrate to the Holy ofHolies at Meccah. I write the first Englishmanadvisedly. Burckhardt, a Swiss explorer, had gonepart of the way before him, and since his day oneor two have the made the pilgrimage, but, thoughit was a sufficiently difficult task when they performedit, it was much more difficult when Burton did itin 1853. He was not a man to do things by halves.He made the pilgrimage thoroughly, living absolutelythe life of the Moslems, wearing their clothes,eating their food, joining in their prayers, sacrifices,and ritual, and speaking their language; he did allthis, carrying his life in his hand, for one false step,one prayer unsaid, one trifling item of the shibbolethomitted, and the dog of an infidel who had daredto profane the sanctuary of the Prophet would havebeen found out, and his bones would have whitenedthe desert sand. Not that Burton went to profanethe tomb of the Prophet. Far from it. From hisearly manhood he had been a sympathetic studentof the higher aspects of El Islam. He had cometo see that in it, above and beyond all the corruptionsand abuses which clung around the Saving Faith, thereexisted an occult force which had made it a poweramong men. Not only in his achievement, but inthe way he did it, Burton manifested those greatqualities which have made the English race what it is;he showed tenacity, pluck, and strength of purpose,and, withal, he accomplished his purpose unobtrusively.None knew until he came back how great a taskhe had achieved.

It was the same with all that Burton undertook.He did his work thoroughly, and he did it withoutany beating of drums or blaring of trumpets. “Deeds,not words,” was his rule; “Honour, not honours,”his motto. His expedition to Harar the followingyear was almost as arduous as his pilgrimage toMeccah. No European had ever before passed thegates of the city in Somaliland. But Burton passedthem, and stayed in Harar some days. Again, hislong and dangerous expedition into Central Africa,which occupied nearly three years, showed in amarvellous manner his resource, his courage, andhis powers of endurance. On the unfortunate controversywhich afterwards arose between himself andSpeke it is not necessary to enter here; but thismuch, at least, may be said. In the discovery of LakeTanganyika Burton was the pioneer; his was thebrain which planned and commanded the expedition,and carried it through to a successful issue. It washe who first achieved with inadequate means andinsufficient escort what Livingstone, Cameron, Speke,Grant, Baker, and Stanley achieved later.

Of the remaining essays there is little to be said.Burton’s description of the Mormons in Great SaltLake City printed here is, I think, very much betterthan his bulky book on the same subject, “The Cityof the Saints.” In the larger work Burton venturedon prophecy, always unsafe, and predicted a greatfuture for Mormondom and polygamy, a predictionwhich has not so far been verified by events. Onthe other hand, this account of his mission to Dahomécertainly loses by excessive condensation. “The Tripup the Congo” and “The Interior of Brazil”are lightning sketches of expeditions which involvedmuch preparation and trouble to carry them through.“Palmyra” is a formal survey rather than an accountof an expedition. It is interesting, as it marks anepoch in (one had almost written, the end of) Burton’sactive life. In 1870 he was suddenly recalled fromDamascus by Lord Granville, and his career wasbroken.

After his appointment to the post of Consul atTrieste he went on some expeditions, notably toMidian, but they were tame indeed compared withthose to Meccah, Harar, and Central Africa. AtTrieste the eagle’s wings were clipped, and the manwho had great energy and ability, a knowledge ofmore than a score of languages, and an unrivalledexperience of Eastern life and literature, was sufferedto drag out eighteen years in the obscurity of asecond-rate seaport town. True, it was not all losttime, for ample leisure was given him at Trieste forhis literary labours. If he had been thrown in amore active sphere, his great masterpiece, “AlfLaylah Wa Laylah” (“The Arabian Nights”) mightnever have seen the light.

But when all is said and done, the most fruitfulyears of Burton’s career, the richest in promise andperformance, were those that began with the pilgrimageto Meccah and ended with his recall fromDamascus. They were the very heart of his life:they are the years covered by this book.

W. H. WILKINS.

October 1901.

EL MEDINAH AND MECCAH
1853

I

THE VISITATION OF EL MEDINAH

THE Moslem’s pilgrimage is a familiar word tothe Christian’s ear, yet how few are acquaintedwith the nature or the signification of the rite!Unto the present day, learned men—​even those whomake a pretence to some knowledge of the East—​stillconfound Meccah, the birthplace, with El Medinah,the burial-place, of Mohammed, the Arab law-giver.“The Prophet’s tomb at Meccah” is a mistake whicheven the best-informed of our journals do not disdainto make.

Before, however, entering upon the journey whichprocured for me the title “haji,” it is necessaryfor me to dispose of a few preliminaries which mustsavour of the personal. The first question thatsuggests itself is, “What course of study enabled anEnglishman to pass unsuspected through the Moslem’sexclusive and jealously guarded Holy Land?”

I must premise that in the matter of assuming anOriental nationality, Nature was somewhat propitiousto me. Golden locks and blue eyes, however per sedesirable, would have been sad obstacles to progressin swarthy Arabia. And to what Nature had begun,art contributed by long years of laborious occupation.

Finding Oxford, with its Greek and Latin, itsmysteries of δε and γαρ, and its theology and mathematics,exceedingly monotonous, I shipped myselffor India and entered life in the 18th Sepoy Regimentof the Bombay Presidency. With sundry intervals oftravel, my career between 1843 and 1849 was spentin Scinde. This newly conquered province was veryMohammedan, and the conquerors were compelled,during the work of organisation, to see more of theconquered than is usual in England’s East Indianpossession. Sir Charles Napier, of gallant memory,our Governor and Commander-in-Chief, honouredme with a staff appointment, and humoured mywhim by allowing me to wander about the new landas a canal engineer employed upon its intricate canalsystem. My days and nights were thus spent amongthe people, and within five years I was enabled topass examinations in six Eastern languages.

In 1849 (March 30th-September 5th) an obstinaterheumatic ophthalmia, the result of overwork, sentme back to Europe, where nearly three years werepassed before I was pronounced cured. Then,thoroughly tired of civilisation and living “dullysluggardised at home,” and pining for the breathof the desert and the music of the date-palm, Ivolunteered in the autumn of 1852 to explore the greatwaste of Eastern and Central Arabia—​that huge whiteblot which still disgraces our best maps. But theCourt of Directors of the then Honourable EastIndia Company, with their mild and amiable chairman,after deliberation, stoutly refused. They saw in meonly another victim, like Stoddard Connolly and thebrave brothers Wyburd, rushing on his own destructionand leaving behind him friends and family to troublewith their requisitions the peace and quiet of theIndia House.

What remained to me but to prove that what mightimperil others was to me safe? Supplied with thesinews of travel by the Royal Geographical Society,curious to see what men are mostly content to hearof only—​namely, Moslem inner life in a purelyMohammedan land—​and longing to set foot withinthe mysterious Meccah which no vacation touristhad ever yet measured, sketched, photographed, anddescribed, I resolved, coûte qu’il coûte, to make theattempt in my old character of a dervish. The safestas well as the most interesting time would be duringthe pilgrimage season.

The Moslem’s hajj, or pilgrimage, means, I mustpremise, “aspiration,” and expresses man’s convictionthat he is but a wayfarer on earth wending towards anobler world. This explains the general belief of themen in sandaled shoon that the greater their hardships,the sorer to travel the road to Jordan, the higherwill be their reward in heaven. The pilgrim is urgedby the voice of his soul—​“O thou, toiling so fiercelyfor worldly pleasure and for transitory profit, wiltthou endure nothing to win a more lasting boon?”Hence it is that pilgrimage is common to all ancientfaiths. The Sabæans, or old Arabians, visited thePyramids as the sepulchres of Seth and his sonSabi, the founder of their sect. The classical philosopherswandered through the Valley of the Nile. TheJews annually went up to Jerusalem. The TartarBuddhists still journey to distant Lamaserais, andthe Hindus to Egypt, to Tibet, to Gaya, on theGanges, and to the inhospitable Caucasus. Thespirit of pilgrimage animated mediæval Europe,and a learned Jesuit traveller considers the processionsof the Roman Catholic Church modern vestigesof the olden rite.

El Islam—​meaning the covenant in virtue of whichmen earn eternal life by good works in this world—​requiresof all its votaries daily ablution and prayer,almsgiving on certain occasions, one month’s yearlyfast, and at least one pilgrimage to the House of Allahat Meccah and the mountain of Ararat. This first,and often the single, visit is called Hajjat el Islam,or pilgrimage of being a Moslem, and all thosesubsequently performed are regarded as works ofsupererogation. The rite, however, is incumbent onlyupon those who possess a sufficiency of health orwealth. El Islam is a creed remarkable for commonsense.

The journey to El Medinah is not called hajj,but ziyarat, meaning a ceremonial visitation. Thusthe difference between worship due to the Creatorand homage rendered to the creature is steadily placedand kept before the Moslem’s eyes. Some sects—​theWahhabi, or Arabian Puritans, for instance—​even condemnas impious all intercessions between man andhis Maker, especially the prayers at the Prophet’sgrave. The mass, however, of the MohammedanChurch, if such expression be applicable to a systemwhich repudiates an ecclesiastical body, considers thisvisitation a “practice of the faith, and the mosteffectual way of drawing near to Allah through theProphet Mohammed.”

The Moslem’s literature has many a thick volumeupon the minutiæ of pilgrimage and visitation. Allfour Sumni, or orthodox schools—​viz., Hunafi, Shafli,Maliki, and Hanbali—​differ in unimportant pointsone with the other. Usually pilgrims, especially thoseperforming the rite for the first time, begin withMeccah and end with El Medinah. But there is nopositive command on the subject. In these dayspilgrims from the north countries—​Egypt and Syria,Damascus and Bagdad—​pass through the Prophet’sburial-place going to and coming from Meccah, makinga visitation each time. Voyagers from the south—​asEast Africa, India, and Java—​must often deny themselves,on account of danger and expense, the spiritualadvantages of prayer at Mohammed’s tomb.

I have often been asked if the pilgrim receives anywritten proof that he has performed his pilgrimage.Formerly the Sherif (descendant of Hasan), or Prince,of Meccah gave a certificate to those who couldafford it, and early in the present century the namesof all who paid the fee were registered by a scribe.All that has passed. But the ceremonies are so complicatedand the localities so peculiar that no bookcan thoroughly teach them. The pretended pilgrimwould readily be detected after a short cross-questioningof the real Simon Pure. As facilitiesof travel increase, and the rite becomes more popular,no pilgrim, unless he comes from the edge of theMoslem world, cares to bind on the green turbanwhich his grandfather affected. Few also style themselveshaji, unless for an especial reason—​as anevidence of reformed life, for instance, or a sign ofbeing a serious person.

Some also have inquired if I was not the first“Christian” who ever visited the Moslem’s HolyLand. The learned Gibbon asserted—​“Our notionsof Meccah must be drawn from the Arabians. As nounbeliever is permitted to enter the city, our travellersare silent.”[1]But Haji Yunus (Ludovico di Bartema)performed the pilgrimage in A.D. 1503; Joseph Pitts,of Exeter, in 1680, Ali Bey el Abbasi (the CatalonianBadia) in 1807, Haji Mohammed (Giovanni Finati,of Ferrara) in 1811, and the excellent Swiss travellerBurckhardt in 1814, all passed safely through theHejaz, or Holy Land. I mention those only whohave written upon the subject. Those who havenot must be far more numerous. In fact, any manmay become a haji by prefacing his pilgrimage with asolemn and public profession of faith before the Kazi inCairo or Damascus; or, simpler still, by applying throughhis Consulate to be put under the protection of theAmir el Haji, or Commander of the Pilgrim Caravan.

If I did anything new, it was this—​my pilgrimagewas performed as by one of the people. El Islamtheoretically encourages, but practically despises anddistrusts, the burma, or renegade. Such a convertis allowed to see as little as possible, and is eversuspected of being a spy. He is carefully watchednight and day, and in troublous times he finds itdifficult to travel between Meccah and El Medinah.Far be it from me to disparage the labours of my predecessors.But Bartema travelled as a Mameluke in thedays when Mamelukes were Christian slaves, Pitts wasa captive carried to the pilgrimage by his Algerinemaster, Badia’s political position was known toall the authorities, Finati was an Albanian soldier,and Burckhardt revealed himself to the old PachaMohammed Ali.

As regards the danger of pilgrimage in the caseof the non-Moslem, little beyond the somewhatextensive chapter of accidents is to be apprehendedby one conversant with Moslem prayers and formulæ,manners and customs, and who possesses a sufficientguarantee of orthodoxy. It is, however, absolutelyindispensable to be a Mohammedan in externals.Neither the Koran nor the Sultan enjoins the killingof Hebrew or Christian intruders; nevertheless, in1860, a Jew, who refused to repeat the Creed, wascrucified by the Meccan populace, and in the eventof a pilgrim declaring himself to be an infidel theauthorities would be powerless to protect him.

The question of Cui bono?—​of what good I did toothers or to myself by the adventure—​is not so easilyanswered. My account of El Medinah is somewhatfuller than that of Burckhardt, whose health wasbreaking when he visited it. And our caravan’sroute between the Holy Cities was not the beatentrack along the Red Sea, but the little-known easternor desert road. Some critics certainly twitted mewith having “turned Turk”; one might turn worsethings. For the rest, man is ever most tempted bythe useless and the impossible.

To appear in character upon the scene of actionmany precautions were necessary. Egypt in thosedays was a land of passports and policemen; thehaute-police was not inferior to that of any Europeancountry. By the advice of a brother-officer, CaptainGrindley, I assumed the Eastern dress at my lodgingsin London, and my friend accompanied me as interpreterto Southampton. On April 4th, 1853, acertain Shaykh Abdullah (to wit, myself) left home inthe P. & O. Company’s steamer Bengal, and beforethe end of the fortnight landed at Alexandria. It wasnot exactly pleasant for the said personage to speakbroken English the whole way, and rigorously torefuse himself the pleasure of addressing the othersex; but under the circ*mstances it was necessary.

Fortunately, on board the Bengal was John Larking,a well-known Alexandrian. He was in my secret,and I was received in his house, where he gave me alittle detached pavilion and treated me as a munshi, orlanguage-master. My profession among the peoplewas that of a doctor. The Egyptians are a medico-riddenrace; all are more or less unhealthy, and theycould not look upon my phials and pill-boxes withoutyearning for their contents. An Indian doctor wasa novelty to them; Franks they despised; but howresist a man who had come so far, from east andwest? Men, women, and children besieged my door,by which means I could see the people face to face,especially that portion of which Europeans as a ruleknow only the worst. Even learned Alexandrians,after witnessing some of my experiments in mesmerismand the magic mirror, opined that the stranger was amanner of holy man gifted with preternatural powers.An old man sent to offer me his daughter in marriage—​mysanctity compelled me to decline the honour—​anda middle-aged lady offered me a hundred piastres(nearly one pound sterling) to stay at Alexandriaand superintend the restoration of her blind left eye.

After a month pleasantly spent in the little gardenof roses, jasmine, and oleanders, I made in early Junea move towards Cairo. The first thing was to procurea passport; I had neglected, through ignorance, tobring one from England. It was not without difficulty,involving much unclean dressing and expenditureof horrible English, that I obtained from H.B.M.’sConsul at Alexandria a certificate declaring me to bean Indo-British subject named Abdullah, by professiona doctor, and, to judge from frequent blanks in thedocument, not distinguished by any remarkable conformationof eyes, nose, or cheek. This paper, dulycountersigned by the zabit, or police magistrate, wouldcarry me anywhere within the Egyptian frontier.

At Alexandria also I provided a few necessaries forthe pilgrimage: item—​a change or two of clothing; asubstantial leather money belt to carry my gold in; alittle cotton bag for silver and small change, kept readyfor use in the breast pocket; a zemzimiyah, or water-bagof goatskin; a huge cotton umbrella of Cairenemake, brightly yellow, like an overgrown marigold;a coarse Persian rug, which acted as bed, table, chair,and oratory; a pea-green box, with red and yellowflowers, capable of standing falls from a camel twicea day, and therefore well fitted for a medicine chest;and, lastly, the only peculiar article—​viz., the shroud,without which no one sets out en route to Meccah.This memento mori is a piece of cotton six feet long byfive broad. It is useful, for instance, when a man isdangerously sick or wounded; the caravan, of course,cannot wait, and to loiter behind is destruction. Thepatient, therefore, is ceremonially washed, wrapped upin his kafan, partly covered with sand, and left tohis fate. It is hard to think of such an end withouthorror; the torturing thirst of a wound, the sunheating the brain to madness, and, worst of all—​forthey do not wait for death—​the attacks of the jackal,the vulture, and the ravens of the wilds. This shroudwas duly sprinkled, as is the custom, with the holy waterof the Zemzem well at Meccah. It later came to abad end amongst the villainous Somal in Eastern Africa.

Equipped in a dervish’s frock, I took leave of mykind host and set out, a third-class passenger, upona steamer facetiously known as the Little Asthmatic.In those days the rail had not invaded Egypt. Wehad an unpleasant journey up the Mahmadiyah Canaland the Nile, which is connected by it with Alexandria.The usual time was thirty hours. We took threemortal days and nights. We were nearly wreckedat the then unfinished Barage, we saw nothing of thePyramids but their tops, and it was with a real feelingof satisfaction that we moored alongside of the oldtumble-down suburb, Bulak.

My dervishhood was perfectly successful. I happenedby chance to touch the elbow of an Anglo-Indian officer,and he publicly and forcibly condemned my organs ofvision. And I made an acquaintance and a friend onboard. The former was a shawl and cotton merchant,Meyan Khudabaksh Namdar, of Lahore, who, as thecaravanserais were full of pilgrims, lodged me at hishouse for a fortnight. The conversations that passedbetween us were published two years later in 1855.[2]They clearly pointed to the mutiny which occurred twoyears afterwards, and this, together with my franknessabout the Suez Canal,[3] did not tend to make me afavourite with the then effete Government of India.

My friend was a Turkish trader, named HajiWali-el-din. He was then a man about forty-five, ofmiddle stature, with a large round head closely shaven,a bull neck, limbs sturdy as a Saxon’s, a thin red beard,and handsome features beaming benevolence. Acurious dry humour he had, delighting in “quizzing,”but in so quiet, quaint, and solemn a way that beforeyou knew him you could scarce divine his drift. Hepresently found for me rooms next his own at thewakalah, or caravanserai, called Jemeliyah, in the Greekquarter, and I tried to repay his kindness by counsellinghim in an unpleasant Consular suit.

When we lived under the same roof, the haji andI became inseparable. We walked together and dinedtogether, and spent the evening at a mosque or otherplace of public pastime. Sometimes we sat amongthe dervishes; but they are a dangerous race, travelledand inquisitive. Meanwhile I continued to practise myprofession—​the medical—​and devoted myself severalhours a day to study in the Azhar Mosque, sittingunder the learned Shaykh Mohammed Ali Attar. Thebetter to study the “humours,” I also became agrocer and druggist, and my little shop, a mere holein the wall, was a perfect gem of Nilotic groceries.But although I sold my wares under cost price to faircustomers, my chief clients were small boys and girls,who came, halfpence in hand, to buy sugar and pepper;so one day, determining to sink the thirty shillingswhich my stock in trade had stood me, I locked thewooden shutter that defended my establishment andmade it over to my shaykh.

The haji and I fasted together during the monthof Ramazan. That year it fell in the torrid June,and it always makes the Moslem unhealthy and unamiable.At the end preparations were to be made fordeparture Meccah-wards, and the event was hastenedby a convivial séance with a bacchanalian captainof Albanians, which made the gossips of the quarterwonder what manner of an Indian doctor had gotamongst them.

I was fortunate enough, however, to hire the servicesof Shaykh Nur, a quiet East Indian, whose black skinmade society suppose him to be my slave. Neversuspecting my nationality till after my return fromMeccah, he behaved honestly enough; but whenabsolved by pilgrimage from his past sins, Haji Nurbegan to rob me so boldly that we were compelledto part. I also made acquaintance with certain sonsof the Holy Cities—​seven men from El Medinah andMeccah—​who, after a begging-trip to Constantinople,were returning to their homes. Having doctoredthem and lent them some trifling sums, I was invitedby Shaykh Hamid El Shamman to stay with him atEl Medinah, and by the boy Mohammed El Basyunito lodge at his mother’s house in Meccah.

They enabled me to collect proper stores for thejourney. These consisted of tea, coffee, loaf sugar,biscuits, oil, vinegar, tobacco, lanterns, cooking-pots,and a small bell-shaped tent costing twelve shillings.The provisions were placed in a kafas, or hamper,of palm sticks, my drugs and dress in a sahharah,or wooden box measuring some three and a half feeteach way, covered with cowskin, and the lid fittinginto the top. And finally, not wishing to travel bythe vans then allotted to the overland passengers, Ihired two dromedaries and their attendant Bedouins,who for the sum of ten shillings each agreed tocarry me across the desert between Cairo and Suez.

At last, after abundant trouble, all was ready. At3 p.m., July 1st, 1853, my friend Haji Wali embracedme heartily, and so did my poor old shaykh, who,despite his decrepitude and my objections, insistedupon accompanying me to the city gate. I will notdeny having felt a tightening of the heart as theirhonest faces and forms faded in the distance. Allthe bystanders ejacul*ted, “Allah bless thee, Y’allHajj (O pilgrim!), and restore thee to thy familyand thy friends.”

We rode hard over the stretch of rock and hardclay which has since yielded to that monumentalwork, the Suez Canal. There was no ennui uponthe road: to the traveller there was an interest inthe wilderness—​

Where love is liberty and Nature law—​

unknown to Cape seas and Alpine glaciers and eventhe boundless prairie. I felt as if looking once moreupon the face of a friend, and my two Bedouins—​thoughthe old traveller described their forefathersas “folke full of all evylle condiciouns”—​wereexcellent company. At midnight we halted for a littlerest near the Central Station, and after dark on thenext evening I passed through the tumble-down gatewayof Suez and found a shelter in the Wakalah Tirjis—​theGeorge Inn. My Meccan and Medinah friendswere already installed there, and the boy MohammedEl Basyuni had joined me on the road.

It was not so easy to embark at Suez. In thosedays the greater body of pilgrims marched round thehead of the Red Sea. Steamers were rare, and in thespirit of protection the Bey, or Governor, had ordersto obstruct us till near the end of the season. MostEgyptian high officials sent their boats laden withpious passengers up the Nile, whence they returnedfreighted with corn. They naturally did their bestto force upon us the delays and discomforts of whatis called the Kussayr (Cosseir) line. And as thosewho travelled by the land route spent their moneyfifteen days longer in Egyptian territory than theywould have done if allowed to embark at Suez, theBey assisted them in the former and obstructed themin the latter case.

We were delayed in the George Inn four mortal daysand nights amidst all the plagues of Egypt. At lastwe found a sambuk, or small-decked vessel, about tostart, and for seven dollars each we took places upon thepoop, the only possible part in the dreadful summermonths. The Silk El Zahab, or Golden Thread,was probably a lineal descendant from the ships ofSolomon harboured in Ezion Geber. It was aboutfifty tons burden, and we found ninety-seven, insteadof sixty, the proper number of passengers. The farceof a quarter-deck ten feet by eight accommodatedeighteen of us, and our companions were Magribis,men from North-Western Africa—​the most quarrelsomeand vicious of pilgrims.

We sailed on July 6th, and, as in an Irish packetof the olden time, the first preliminary to “shakingdown” was a general fight. The rais (captain)naturally landed and left us to settle the matter,which ended in many a head being broken. I playedmy poor part in the mêlée by pushing down a heavyjar of water upon the swarm of assailants. At lastthe Magribis, failing to dislodge us from the poop,made peace, and finding we were sons of the HolyCities, became as civil as their unkindly naturespermitted. We spent twelve days, instead of thenormal five, in beating down the five hundred andfifty direct miles between Suez and Yambu.

Every second day we managed to land and stretchour limbs. The mornings and evenings were mildand balmy, whilst the days were terrible. We felt asif a few more degrees of heat would be fatal to us.The celebrated coral reefs of the Red Sea, whencesome authors derive its name, appeared like meadowsof brilliant flowers resembling those of earth, onlyfar brighter and more beautiful. The sunsets weremagnificent; the zodiacal light, or after-glow, wasa study; and the cold rays of the moon, falling upona wilderness of white clay and pinnacle, suggesteda wintry day in England.

At last, after slowly working up a narrow creekleading to the Yambu harbour, on July 17th wesprang into a shore-boat, and felt new life whenbidding eternal adieu and “sweet bad luck” to theGolden Thread, which seemed determined to wreckitself about once per diem.

Yambu, the port of El Medinah, lies S.S.W. of,and a little over a hundred and thirty miles from,its city. The road was infamous—​rocky, oftenwaterless, alternately fiery and freezing, and infestedwith the Beni Harb, a villainous tribe of hill Bedouins.Their chief was one Saad, a brigand of the firstwater. He was described as a little brown man, contemptiblein appearance but remarkable for courage andfor a ready wit, which saved him from the poison andpistol of his enemies. Some called him the friend ofthe poor, and all knew him to be the foe of the rich.

There was nothing to see at Yambu, where,however, we enjoyed the hammam and the drinking-water,which appeared deliciously sweet after thebriny supplies of Suez. By dint of abundant bargainingwe hired camels at the moderate rate ofthree dollars each—​half in ready money, the restto be paid after arrival. I also bought a shugduf,or rude litter carrying two, and I chose the boyMohammed as my companion. The journey isusually done in five days. We took eight, and weconsidered ourselves lucky fellows.

On the evening of the next day (July 18th) we setout with all the gravity of men putting our headsinto the lion’s jaws. The moon rose fair and clearas we emerged from the shadowy streets. When welaunched into the desert, the sweet, crisp air delightfullycontrasted with the close, offensive atmosphereof the town.

My companions all, as Arabs will do on suchoccasions, forgot to think of their precious boxesfull of the plunder of Constantinople, and beganto sing. We travelled till three o’clock in the morning(these people insist upon setting out in the afternoonand passing the night in travelling). And the Prophetinforms us that the “calamities of earth,” meaningscorpions, serpents, and wild beasts, are least dangerousduring the dark hours.

After a pleasant sleep in the wilderness, we joinedfor the next day’s march a caravan of grain carriers,about two hundred camels escorted by seven TurkishBashi Buzuk, or Irregular Cavalry. They confirmedthe report that the Bedouins were “out,” and declaredthat Saad, the Old Man of the Mountain, hadthreatened to cut every throat venturing into hispasses. That night the robbers gave us a mild tasteof their quality, but soon ran away. The third marchlay over an iron land and under a sky of brass to along straggling village called, from its ruddy look, ElHamra (the Red); it is the middle station betweenYambu and El Medinah. The fourth stage placedus on the Sultan’s high-road leading from Meccahto the Prophet’s burial-place, and we joined a companyof pious persons bound on visitation.

The Bedouins, hearing that we had an escort oftwo hundred troopers, manned a gorge and would notlet us advance till the armed men retired. The fifthand sixth days were forced halts at a vile place calledBir Abbas, where we could hear the distant droppingof the musketry, a sign that the troops and the hill-menwere settling some little dispute. Again mycompanions were in cold perspirations about theirtreasures, and passed the most of their time insulking and quarrelling.

About sunset on July 23rd, three or four caravansassembled at Bir Abbas, forming one large body forbetter defence against the dreaded Bedouins. Weset out at 11 p.m., travelling without halting throughthe night, and at early dawn we found ourselves inan ill-famed narrow known as Shuab El Haji, or thePilgrim’s Pass. The boldest looked apprehensive aswe approached it. Presently, from the precipitouscliff on our left, thin puffs of blue smoke rose in thesultry morning air, and afterwards the sharp cracksof the hill-men’s matchlocks were echoed by the rockson the right. A number of Bedouins could be seenswarming like hornets up the steeper slopes, carryinghuge weapons and “spoiling for a fight.” They tookup comfortable positions on the cut-throat embankmentand began practising upon us from behind theirbreastworks of piled stones with perfect convenienceto themselves. We had nothing to do but to blazeaway as much powder and to veil ourselves in as densea smoke as possible. The result was that we losttwelve men, besides camels and other beasts of burden.My companions seemed to consider this questionableaffair a most gallant exploit.

The next night (July 24th) was severe. The pathlay up rocky hill and down stony vale. A trippingand stumbling dromedary had been substituted formy better animal, and the consequences may beimagined.

The sun had nearly risen before I shook off thelethargic effects of such a march. All around mewere hurrying their beasts, regardless of roughground, and not a soul spoke a word to his neighbour.“Are there robbers in sight?” was the naturalquestion. “No,” responded the boy Mohammed.“They are walking with their eyes; they will presentlysight their homes.”

Half an hour afterwards we came to a huge mudarrij,or flight of steps, roughly cut in a line of blackscoriaceous basalt. Arrived at the top, we passedthrough a lane of dark lava with steep banks on bothsides, and in a few minutes a full view of the HolyCity suddenly opened upon us. It was like a visionin “The Arabian Nights.” We halted our camels asif by word of command. All dismounted, in imitationof the pious of old, and sat down, jaded and hungryas we were, to feast our eyes on the “country ofdate-trees” which looked so passing fair after the“salt stony land.” As we looked eastward thesun rose out of the horizon of blue and pink hill,the frontier of Nejd staining the spacious plains withgold and purple. The site of El Medinah is in thewestern edge of the highlands which form the plateauof Central Arabia. On the left side, or north, wasa tall grim pile of porphyritic rock, the celebratedMount Ohod, with a clump of verdure and a domeor two nestling at its base. Round a whitewashedfortalice founded upon a rock clustered a walled city,irregularly oval, with tall minarets enclosing a conspicuousgreen dome. To the west and south laya large suburb and long lines of brilliant vegetationpiercing the tawny levels. I now understood the fullvalue of a phrase in the Moslem ritual—​“And whenthe pilgrim’s eyes shall fall upon the trees of ElMedinah, let him raise his voice and bless the Prophetwith the choicest blessings.”

In all the panorama before us nothing was morestriking, after the desolation through which we hadpassed, than the gardens and orchards about the town.My companions obeyed the command with the mostpoetical exclamations, bidding the Prophet “live forever whilst the west wind bloweth gently over thehills of Nejd and the lightning flasheth bright in thefirmament of El Hejaz.”

We then remounted and hurried through the BabEl Ambari, the gate of the western suburb. Crowdedby relatives and friends, we passed down a broad, dustystreet, pretty well supplied with ruins, into an openspace called Barr El Manakhah, or “place where camelsare made to kneel.” Straight forward a line leadsdirectly into the Bab El Misri, the Egyptian gate ofthe city. But we turned off to the right, andafter advancing a few yards we found ourselvesat the entrance of our friend Shaykh Hamid’shouse. He had preceded us to prepare for ourreception.

No delay is allowed in the ziyarat, or visitation ofthe haram, or holy place, which received the mortalremains of the Arab Prophet. We were barely allowedto breakfast, to perform the religious ablution, and tochange our travel-soiled garments. We then mountedasses, passed through the Egyptian, or western, gate,and suddenly came upon the mosque. It is chokedup with ignoble buildings, and as we entered the“Dove of Mercy” I was not impressed by thespectacle.

The site of the Prophet’s mosque—​Masjid elNabashi, as it is called—​was originally a graveyardshaded by date-trees. The first walls were of adobe,or unbaked brick, and the recently felled palm-trunkswere made into pillars for the leaf-thatched roof. Thepresent building, which is almost four centuries old, isof cut stone, forming an oblong of four hundred andtwenty feet by three hundred and forty feet. In thecentre is a spacious uncovered area containing theGarden of Our Lady Fatimah—​a railed plot of groundbearing a lote-tree and a dozen palms. At thesouth-east angle of this enclosure, under a woodenroof with columns, is the Prophet’s Well, whosewater is hard and brackish. Near it meets the CityAcademy, where in the cool mornings and eveningsthe young idea is taught to shout rather than toshoot.

Around the court are four riwaks, or porches, notunlike the cloisters of a monastery; they are archedto the front, backed by the wall and supported insideby pillars of different shape and material varying fromdirty plaster to fine porphyry. When I made myvisitation, the northern porch was being rebuilt; it wasto be called after Abd El Majid, the then reigningSultan, and it promised to be the most splendid. Themain colonnade, however, the sanctum containing allthat is venerable in the building, embraces the wholelength of the southern short wall, and is deeperthan the other three by nearly treble the number ofcolumns. It is also paved with handsome slabs ofwhite marble and marquetry work, here and therecovered with coarse matting and above this by uncleancarpets, well worn by faithful feet.

To understand the tomb a few preliminary remarksare necessary. Mohammed, it must be remembered,died in the eleventh year of his mission and thesixty-third of his age, corresponding with A.D. 623.He was accustomed to say, “In whatsoever spot aprophet departs this life, there also should he beburied.” Accordingly his successor ordered the graveto be dug in the house of the young widow Ayisha,who lived close to the original mosque. After herhusband’s burial she occupied an adjoining roompartitioned off from the tomb at which men wereaccustomed to pray. Another saying of the Prophet’sforbade tombs to be erected in mosques; it thereforebecame necessary so to contrive that the revered spotshould be in, and yet not in, the place of worship.

Accordingly they built a detached tower in thesouth-eastern corner of the mosque, and called itthe hujrah, or chamber. It is from fifty to fifty-fivefeet square, with a passage all round, and it extendsfrom floor to roof, where it is capped by the greendome which strikes the eyes on approaching the city.The external material of the closet, which also servesto protect the remains from infidels and schismatics,is metal filagree painted a vivid grey green, relievedby the brightly gilt or burnished brass-work formingthe long and graceful Arabic characters. On thesouth side, for greater honour, the railing is platedover in parts with silver, and letters of the samemetal are interlaced with it.

Entering by the western Door of Safety, we pacedslowly towards the tomb down a line of wall aboutthe height of a man, and called the “illustrious fronting.”The barrier is painted with arabesques andpierced with small doors. There are two niches richlyworked with various coloured marble, and near themis a pulpit, a graceful collection of slender columns,elegant tracery, and inscriptions admirably carved.Arrived at the western small door in the dwarf wall,we entered the famous spot called El Ranzah (the“Garden”), after a saying of Mohammed: “Betweenmy grave and my pulpit is a garden of the gardensof Paradise.” On the north and west sides it isnot divided from the rest of the porch, to the southrises the dwarf wall, and eastward it is bounded bythe west end of the filagree tower containing the tomb.

The “Garden” is the most elaborate part of themosque. It is a space of about eighty feet in lengthtawdrily decorated to resemble vegetation: the carpetsare flowered, and the pediments of columns are casedwith bright green tiles, and the shafts are adornedwith gaudy and unnatural growths in arabesques. Itis further disfigured by handsome branched candelabraof cut crystal, the work, I believe, of an English house.Its peculiar background, the filagree tower, looksmore picturesque near than at a distance, where itsuggests the idea of a gigantic birdcage. The onereally fine feature of the scene is the light cast by thewindow of stained glass in the southern wall. Thuslittle can be said in praise of the “Garden” by day.But at night the eye, dazzled by oil lamps suspendedfrom the roof, by huge wax candles, and by minorilluminations, whilst crowds of visitors in the brightestattire, with the richest and noblest of the citizens, sit incongregation to hear services, becomes far less critical.

Entering the “Garden” we fronted towards Meccah,prayed, recited two chapters of the Koran, and gavealms to the poor in gratitude to Allah for making itour fate to visit so holy a spot. Then we repairedto the southern front of the chamber, where thereare three dwarf windows, apertures half a foot square,and placed at eye’s height from the ground. Thewesternmost is supposed to be opposite to the faceof Mohammed, who lies on the right side, facing, asis still the Moslem custom, the House of Allah atMeccah. The central hill is that of Abubaki, thefirst Caliph, whose head is just behind the Prophet’sshoulder. The easternmost window is that of Omar,the second Caliph, who holds the same position withrespect to Abubaki. In the same chamber, butdecorously divided by a wall from the male tenants,reposes the Lady Fatimah, Mohammed’s favouritedaughter. Osman, the fourth Caliph, was not buriedafter his assassination near his predecessors, but thereis a vacant space for Isa bin Maryam when he shallreturn.

We stood opposite these three windows, successively,beginning with that of the Prophet, recited the blessings,which we were directed to pronounce “with awe andfear and love.” The ritual is very complicated, andthe stranger must engage a guide technically calleda muzawwir, or visitation-maker. He is always ason of the Holy City, and Shaykh Hamid was mine.Many a piercing eye was upon me: the peopleprobably supposed that I was an Ajemi or Persian,and these heretics have often attempted to defile thetombs of the two Caliphs.

When the prayers were at an end, I was allowed tolook through the Prophet’s window. After strainingmy eyes for a time, the oil lamps shedding but adim light, I saw a narrow passage leading round thechamber. The inner wall is variously represented tobe made of stone planking or unbaked bricks. Onesees nothing but thin coverings, a curtain of handsomesilk and cotton brocade, green, with long white lettersworked into it. Upon the hangings were three inscriptionsin characters of gold, informing readers thatbehind there lie Allah’s Prophet and the two firstCaliphs. The exact place of Mohammed’s tomb is,moreover, distinguished by a large pearl rosary anda peculiar ornament, the celebrated Kankab el Durri,or constellation of pearls; it is suspended breast highto the curtain. This is described to be a “brilliantstar set in diamonds and pearls” placed in the darkthat man’s eye may be able to endure its splendours;the vulgar believe it to be a “jewel of the jewelsof Paradise.” To me it suggested the round glassystoppers used for the humbler sort of decanters, butthen I think the same of the Koh-i-Nur.

I must allude to the vulgar story of Mohammed’ssteel coffin suspended in mid-air between two magnets.The myth has won a world-wide reputation, yetArabia has never heard of it. Travellers explain itin two ways. Niebuhr supposes it to have risen fromthe rude ground-plan drawings sold to strangers, andmistaken by them for elevations. William Banksbelieves that the work popularly described as hangingunsupported in the mosque of Omar at Jerusalem wasconfounded with the Prophet’s tomb at El Medinahby Christians, who until very lately could not haveseen either of these Moslem shrines.

A book which I published upon the subject of mypilgrimage gives in detail my reason for believingthat the site of Mohammed’s sepulture is doubtful asthat of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem.[4] They are,briefly, these four: From the earliest days the shapeof the Prophet’s tomb has never been generally knownin El Islam. The accounts of the grave given bythe learned are discrepant. The guardianship of thespot was long in the hands of schismatics (the BeniHusayu). And lastly, I cannot but look uponthe tale of the blinding light which surrounds theProphet’s tomb, current for ages past, and stilluniversally believed upon the authority of attendanteunuchs who must know its falsehood as a priestlyglory intended to conceal a defect.

To that book also I must refer my readers for afull description of the minor holy places at El Medinah.They are about fifty in number, and of these about adozen are generally visited. The principal of theseare, first, El Bakia (the Country of the Saints), to theeast of the city; on the last day some seventy thousand,others say a hundred thousand, holy men with faceslike moons shall arise from it; the second is theApostle’s mosque at Kubas, the first temple built inEl Islam; and the third is a visitation to the tombof Mohammed’s paternal uncle, Hamzeh, the “Lordof Martyrs,” who was slain fighting for the faith inA.D. 625.

A few observations concerning the little-knowncapital of the Northern Hejaz may not be unacceptable.

Medinah El Nahi (the City of the Prophet) is usuallycalled by Moslems, for brevity, El Medinah, or theCity by Excellence. It lies between the twenty-fourthand twenty-fifth degrees of north latitude, correspondingtherefore with Central Mexico; and being highraised above the sea, it may be called a tierra temprada.My predecessor, Burckhardt, found the water detestable.I thought it good. The winter is long and rigorous,hence partly the fair complexion of its inhabitants,who rival in turbulence and fanaticism their brethrenof Meccah.

El Medinah consists of three parts—​a town, acastle, and a large suburb. The population, when Ivisited it, ranged from sixteen thousand to eighteenthousand souls, whereas Meccah numbered forty-fivethousand, and the garrison consisted of a half-battalion,or four hundred men. Mohammed’s lastresting-place has some fifteen hundred hearths enclosedby a wall of granite and basalt in irregular layerscemented with lime. It is pierced with four gates:the Syrian, the Gate of Hospitality, the Friday, andthe Egyptian. The two latter are fine massivebuildings, with double towers like the old Normanportals, but painted with broad bands of red pillarsand other flaring colours. Except the Prophet’smosque, there are few public buildings. There areonly four caravanserais, and the markets are longlines of sheds, thatched with scorched and blackenedpalm-leaves. The streets are what they should alwaysbe in torrid lands, dark, deep, narrow, and rarelypaved; they are generally of black earth, well wateredand trodden to harden. The houses appear wellbuilt for the East, of square stone, flat roofed, doublestoried, and enclosing spacious courtyards and smallgardens, where water basins and trees and sheds “coolthe eye,” as Arabs say. Latticed balconies are hereuniversal, and the windows are mere holes in thewalls provided with broad shutters. The castle hasstronger defences than the town, and inside it a talldonjon tower bears, proudly enough, the banner of theCrescent and the Star. Its whitewashed lines of wallrender this fortalice a conspicuous object, and gunspointing in all directions, especially upon the town,make it appear a kind of Gibraltar to the Bedouins.

For many reasons strangers become very muchattached to El Medinah and there end their lives.My servant, Shaykh Nur, opined it to be a very“heavenly city.” Therefore the mass of the populationis of foreign extraction.

On August 28th arrived the great Damascus caravan,which sets out from Constantinople bringing thepresents of the Sublime Porte. It is the main streamwhich absorbs all the small currents flowing at thisseason of general movement from Central Asia towardsthe great centre of the Islamitic world, and in 1853it numbered about seven thousand souls. It wasanxiously expected at El Medinah for several reasons.In the first place, it brought with it a new curtain forthe Prophet’s chamber, the old one being in a tatteredcondition; secondly, it had charge of the annualstipends and pensions for the citizens; and thirdly,many families had members returning under itsescort to their homes. The popular anxiety wasgreatly increased by the disordered state of thecountry round about, and moreover the great caravanwas a day late. The Russian war had extended itsexcitement even into the bowels of Arabia, andto travel eastward according to my original intentionwas impossible.

For a day or two we were doubtful about whichroad the caravan would take—​the easy coast line orthe difficult and dangerous eastern, or desert, route.Presently Saad the robber shut his doors against us,and we were driven perforce to choose the worse.The distance between El Medinah and Meccah bythe frontier way would be in round numbers twohundred and fifty (two hundred and forty-eight) miles,and in the month of September water promised tobe exceedingly scarce and bad.

I lost no time in patching up my water-skins, inlaying in a store of provisions, and in hiring camels.Masad El Harbi, an old Bedouin, agreed to let mehave two animals for the sum of twenty dollars. Myhost warned me against the treachery of the wild men,with whom it is necessary to eat salt once a day.Otherwise they may rob the traveller and plead thatthe salt is not in their stomachs.

Towards evening time on August 30th, El Medinahbecame a scene of exceeding confusion in consequenceof the departure of the pilgrims. About an hourafter sunset all our preparations were concluded. Theevening was sultry; we therefore dined outside thehouse. I was told to repair to the shrine for theziyarat el widoa, or the farewell visitation. Mydecided objection to this step was that we were allto part, and where to meet again we knew not. Itherefore prayed a two-prostration prayer, and facingtowards the haram recited the usual supplication.We sat up till 2 p.m. when, having heard no signalgun, we lay down to sleep through the hot remnantof the hours of darkness. Thus was spent my lastnight at the City of the Prophet.

[1] “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,” chap. i.

[2]Vide Burton’s “Pilgrimage to El Medinah and Meccah,” chap. iii.

[3]Ibid., chap. vi.

[4] “Pilgrimage to El Medinah and Meccah,” by Richard F. Burton.

II

THE PILGRIMAGE TO MECCAH

On Wednesday, August 31st, 1853, I embraced mygood host, Shaykh Hamid, who had taken greattrouble to see me perfectly provided for the journey.Shortly after leaving El Medinah we all halted andturned to take a last farewell. All the pilgrimsdismounted and gazed long and wistfully at thevenerable minarets and the Prophet’s green dome—​spotsupon which their memories would ever dwellwith a fond and yearning interest.

We hurried after the Damascus caravan, andpresently fell into its wake. Our line was calledthe Darb el Sharki, or eastern road. It owes itsexistence to the piety of Zubaydah Khatun, wife ofthe well-known Harun el Rashid. That esteemedprincess dug wells, built tanks, and raised, we aretold, a wall with occasional towers between Bagdadand Meccah, to guide pilgrims over the shiftingsands. Few vestiges of all this labour remained inthe year of grace 1853.

Striking is the appearance of the caravan as itdraggles its slow length along

as the poet of “Palm-leaves” has it. The sky isterrible in its pitiless splendours and blinding beautywhile the simoon, or wind of the wild, caresses thecheek with the flaming breath of a lion. The filmyspray of sand and the upseething of the atmosphere,the heat-reek and the dancing of the air upon thebaked surface of the bright yellow soil, blending withthe dazzling blue above, invests the horizon with abroad band of deep dark green, and blurs the gauntfigures of the camels, which, at a distance, appearstrings of gigantic birds.

There are evidently eight degrees of pilgrims. Thelowest walk, propped on heavy staves; these are theitinerant coffee-makers, sherbet sellers, and tobacconists,country folks driving flocks of sheep and goats withinfinite clamour and gesticulation, negroes from distantAfrica, and crowds of paupers, some approaching thesupreme hour, but therefore yearning the more tobreathe their last in the Holy City. Then come thehumble riders of laden camels, mules, and asses, whichthe Bedouin, who clings baboon-like to the hairy backof his animal, despises, saying:—​

Respectable men mount dromedaries, or blood-camels,known by their small size, their fine limbs,and their large deer-like eyes: their saddles showcrimson sheep-skins between tall metal pommels, andthese are girthed over fine saddle-bags, whose longtassels of bright worsted hang almost to the ground.Irregular soldiers have picturesquely equipped steeds.Here and there rides some old Arab shaykh, precededby his varlets performing a war-dance, comparedwith which the bear’s performance is graceful,firing their duck-guns in the air, or blowing powderinto the naked legs of those before them, brandishingtheir bared swords, leaping frantically withparti-coloured rags floating in the wind, and tossinghigh their long spears. Women, children, andinvalids of the poorer classes sit upon rugs orcarpets spread over the large boxes that form thecamel’s load. Those a little better off use a shibriyah,or short coat, fastened crosswise. The richer prefershugduf panniers with an awning like a miniaturetent. Grandees have led horses and gorgeously paintedtakhtrawan—​litters like the bangué of Brazil—​bornebetween camels or mules with scarlet and brasstrappings. The vehicle mainly regulates the pilgrim’sexpenses, which may vary from five pounds to asmany thousands.

I will not describe the marches in detail: they muchresemble those between Yambu and El Medinah. Wenighted at two small villages, El Suwayrkiyah andEl Suyayna, which supplied a few provisions to acaravan of seven thousand to eight thousand souls.For the most part it is a haggard land, a country ofwild beasts and wilder men, a region whose veryfountains murmur the warning words, “Drink andaway,” instead of “Rest and be thankful.” In otherplaces it is a desert peopled only with echoes, anabode of death for what little there is to die in it,a waste where, to use an Arab phrase, “La SiwaHu”—​“There is none but He.” Gigantic sandcolumns whirl over the plains, the horizon is a seaof mirage, and everywhere Nature, flayed and scalped,discovers her skeleton to the gazer’s eye.

We passed over many ridges of rough black basalt,low plains, and basins white with nitrous salt, acaciabarrens where litters were torn off the camels’ backs bythe strong thorns, and domes and streets of polishedrock. Now we travelled down dry torrent-beds ofextreme irregularity, then we wended our way alongcliffs castellated as if by men’s hand, and bouldersand pillars of coarse-grained granite, sometimes thirtyfeet high. Quartz abounded, and the country mayhave contained gold, but here the superficial formationhas long since been exhausted. In Arabia, as in theEast Indies, the precious metal still lingers. At Cairoin 1854 I obtained good results by washing sandbrought from the coast of the Red Sea north of Wijh.My plan for working was rendered abortive by acertain dictum, since become a favourite with thegoverning powers in England—​namely, “Gold isgetting too plentiful.”

Few animals except vultures and ravens meet theeye. Once, however, we enjoyed a grand spectacle.It was a large yellow lion, somewhat white about thepoints—​a sign of age—​seated in a statuesque poseupon a pedestal of precipitous rock by the wayside,and gazing upon the passing spectacle as if monarchof all he surveyed. The caravan respected the wildbeast, and no one molested it. The Bedouin of Arabiahas a curious custom when he happens to fall in witha lion: he makes a profound salaam, says many complimentarythings, and begs his majesty not to harma poor man with a large family. If the brute be nothungry, the wayfarer is allowed to pass on; the latter,however, is careful when returning to follow anotherpath. “The father of roaring,” he remarks, “hasrepented of having missed a meal.”

On Friday, September 9th, we encamped at Zaribah,two marches, or forty-seven miles, from Meccah.This being the north-eastern limit of the sanctuary,we exchanged our everyday dress for the pilgrimgarb, which is known as el ihrám, or mortification.Between the noontide and the afternoon prayers ourheads were shaved, our beards and nails trimmed, andwe were made to bathe. We then put on the attirewhich seems to be the obsolete costume of the ancientArabs. It consists of two cotton cloths, each six feetlong by three or four feet wide, white, with narrowred stripes and fringes—​in fact, that adopted in theTurkish baths of London. One of these sheets isthrown over the back and is gathered at the right side,the arm being left exposed. The waistcloth extendslike a belt to the knee, and, being tucked in at thewaist, supports itself. The head is bared to the rabidsun, and the insteps, which must also be left naked,suffer severely.

Thus equipped, we performed a prayer of twoprostrations, and recited aloud the peculiar formulaof pilgrimage called Talbiyat. In Arabic it is:

which I would translate thus:

The director of our consciences now bade us begood pilgrims, avoiding quarrels, abusive language,light conversation, and all immorality. We mustreligiously respect the sanctuary of Meccah by sparingthe trees and avoiding to destroy animal life, excepting,however, the “five instances,”—​a crow, a kite,a rat, a scorpion, and a biting dog. We must abstainfrom washes and perfumes, oils, dyes, and cosmetics; wemust not pare the nails nor shave, pluck or cut thehair, nor must we tie knots in our garments. We wereforbidden to cover our heads with turban or umbrella,although allowed to take advantage of the shade, andward off the sun with our hands. And for eachinfraction of these ordinances we were commandedto sacrifice a sheep.

The women followed our example. This alonewould disprove the baseless but wide-world calumnywhich declares that El Islam recognises no soul in,and consequently no future for, the opposite sex.The Early Fathers of the Christian Church mayhave held such tenet, the Mohammedans never.Pilgrimesses exchange the lisam—​that coquettishfold of thin white muslin which veils, but does nothide, the mouth—​for a hideous mask of split, dried,and plaited palm-leaves pierced with bull’s-eyes toadmit the light. This ugly mask is worn becausethe veil must not touch the features. The rest ofthe outer garment is a long sheet of white cotton,covering the head and falling to the heels. Wecould hardly help laughing when these queer ghostlyfigures first met our sight, and, to judge from theshaking of their shoulders, they were as much amusedas we were.

In mid-afternoon we left Zaribah, and presentlyit became apparent that although we were forbiddento take lives of others, others were not preventedfrom taking ours. At 5 p.m. we came upon awide, dry torrent-bed, down which we were to travelall night. It was a cut-throat place, with a stony,precipitous buttress on the right, faced by a grimand barren slope. Opposite us the way seemed tobe barred by piles of hills, crest rising above crestin the far blue distance. Day still smiled upon theupper peaks, but the lower grounds and the roadwere already hung with sombre shade.

A damp fell upon our spirits as we nearedthis “Valley Perilous.” The voices of the womenand children sank into deep silence, and theloud “Labbayk!” which the male pilgrims areordered to shout whenever possible, was graduallystilled.

The cause soon became apparent. A small curlof blue smoke on the summit of the right-handprecipice suddenly caught my eye, and, simultaneouslywith the echoing crack of the matchlock, a dromedaryin front of me, shot through the heart, rolled onthe sands. The Utajbah, bravest and most lawlessof the brigand tribes of the Moslem’s Holy Land,were determined to boast that on such and such anight they stopped the Sultan’s caravan one wholehour in the pass.

There ensued a scene of terrible confusion. Womenscreamed, children cried, and men vociferated, each onestriving with might and main to urge his animal beyondthe place of death. But the road was narrow andhalf-choked with rocks and thorny shrubs; the vehiclesand animals were soon jammed into a solid andimmovable mass, whilst at every shot a cold shudderran through the huge body. Our guard, the irregularhorsem*n, about one thousand in number, pushedup and down perfectly useless, shouting to andordering one another. The Pacha of the soldiers hadhis carpet spread near the precipice, and over his pipedebated with the officers about what should be done.No one seemed to whisper, “Crown the heights.”

Presently two or three hundred Wahhabis—​mountaineersof Tebel Shammar in North-Eastern Arabia—​sprangfrom their barebacked camels, with their elf-lockstossing in the wind, and the flaming matchesof their guns casting a lurid light over their wildfeatures. Led by the Sherif Zayd, a brave Meccannoble, who, happily for us, was present, they swarmedup the steep, and the robbers, after receiving a fewshots, retired to fire upon our rear.

Our forced halt was now exchanged for a flight,and it required much tact to guide our camels clearof danger. Whoever and whatever fell, remainedon the ground; that many were lost became evidentfrom the boxes and baggage which strewed theshingles. I had no means of ascertaining our exactnumber of killed and wounded; reports were contradictory,and exaggeration was unanimous. Therobbers were said to be one hundred and fifty innumber. Besides honour and glory, they lookedforward to the loot, and to a feast of dead camel.

We then hurried down the valley in the blacknessof night, between ribbed precipices, dark and angry.The torch smoke and the night fires formed a canopysable above and livid below, with lightning-flashesfrom the burning shrubs and grim crowds hurryingas if pursued by the Angel of Death. The scenewould have suited the theatrical canvas of Doré.

At dawn we issued from the Perilous Pass intothe Wady Laymun, or Valley of Limes. A wondrouscontrast! Nothing can be more soothing to the brainthan the rich green foliage of its pomegranates andother fruit-trees, and from the base of the southernhills bursts a babbling stream whose

Chiare fresche e dolci acque

flow through the garden, cooling the pure air, andfilling the ear with the most delicious of melodies,the gladdest sound which nature in these regionsknows.

At noon we bade adieu to the charming valley,which, since remote times, has been a favourite resortof the Meccan citizens.

At sunset we recited the prayers suited to theoccasion, straining our eyes, but all in vain, to catchsight of Meccah. About 1 a.m. I was aroused by ageneral excitement around me.

“Meccah! Meccah!” cried some voices. “Thesanctuary, oh, the sanctuary!” exclaimed others, andall burst into loud “Labbayk!” not infrequentlybroken by sobs. With a heartfelt “Alhamdu lillah,”I looked from my litter and saw under the chandelierof the Southern Cross the dim outlines of a largecity, a shade darker than the surrounding plain.

A cool east wind met us, showing that it was rainingin the Taif hills, and at times sheet lightningplayed around the Prophet’s birthplace—​a commonphenomenon, which Moslems regard as the testimonyof Heaven to the sanctity of the spot.

Passing through a deep cutting, we entered thenorthern suburb of our destination. Then I madeto the Shamiyah, or Syrian quarter, and finally, at2 a.m., I found myself at the boy Mohammed’shouse. We arrived on the morning of Sunday,September 11th, 1853, corresponding with Zu’lHijjah 6th, 1269. Thus we had the whole dayto spend in visiting the haram, and a quiet nightbefore the opening of the true pilgrim season, whichwould begin on the morrow.

The morrow dawned. After a few hours of sleepand a ceremonial ablution, we donned the pilgrimgarb, and with loud and long “Labbayk!” we hastenedto the Bayt Ullah, or House of Allah, as the greattemple of Meccah is called.

At the bottom of our street was the outer Bab ElSalam, or Gate of Security, looking towards the east,and held to be, of all the thirty-nine, the mostauspicious entrance for a first visit.

Here we descended several steps, for the level ofthe temple has been preserved, whilst the foundationsof the city have been raised by the decay of ages.We then passed through a shady colonnade dividedinto aisles, here four, and in the other sides three,pillars deep. These cloisters are a forest of columnsupwards of five hundred and fifty in number, andin shape and material they are as irregular as trees.The outer arches of the colonnade are ogives, andevery four support a small dome like half an orange,and white with plaster: some reckon one hundredand twenty, others one hundred and fifty, andMeccan superstition declares they cannot be counted.The rear of the cloisters rests upon an outer wall ofcut stone, finished with pinnacles, or Arab battlements,and at different points in it rise seven minarets.These are tall towers much less bulky than ours,partly in facets, circular, and partly cylindrical, builtat distinct epochs, and somewhat tawdrily bandedwith gaudy colours.

This vast colonnade surrounds a large unroofedand slightly irregular oblong, which may be comparedwith an exaggeration of the Palais Royal, Paris.This sanded area is six hundred and fifty feet longby five hundred and twenty-five broad, dotted withsmall buildings grouped round a common centre, andis crossed by eight narrow lines of flagged pavement.Towards the middle of it, one hundred and fifteenpaces from the northern colonnade and eighty-eightfrom the southern, and based upon an irregularlyoval pavement of fine close grey gneiss, or granite,rises the far-famed Kaabah, or inner temple, itsfunereal pall contrasting vividly with the sunlit wallsand the yellow precipices of the city.

Behold it at last, the bourn of long and wearytravel, realising the plans and hopes of many andmany a year! This, then, is the kibbal, or direction,towards which every Moslem has turned in prayersince the days of Mohammed, and which for longages before the birth of Christianity was reverencedby the patriarchs of the East.

No wonder that the scene is one of the wildestexcitement! Here are worshippers clinging to thecurtain and sobbing as though their hearts wouldbreak; here some poor wretch with arms thrownhigh, so that his beating breast may touch the stoneof the house, appears ready to faint, and there menprostrate themselves on the pavement, rubbing theirforeheads against the stones, shedding floods of tears,and pouring forth frenzied ejacul*tions. The mostcareless, indeed, never contemplate it for the first timewithout fear and awe. There is a popular jest againstnew-comers that in the presence of the Kaabah theygenerally inquire the direction of prayer, althoughthey have all their lives been praying towards it asthe early Christian fronted Jerusalem.

But we must look more critically at the celebratedshrine.

The word Kaabah means a cube, a square, amaison carrée. It is called Bayt Ullah (House ofGod) because according to the Koran it is “certainlythe first temple erected for mankind.” It is alsoknown as the “Bride of Meccah,” probably from theold custom of typifying the Church Visible by a youngmarried woman—​hence probably its face-veil, itscovering, and its guard of eunuchs. Externally itis a low tower of fine grey granite laid in horizontalcourses of irregular depth; the stones are tolerablyfitted, and are not cemented. It shows no signs ofdecay, and indeed, in its present form, it dates onlyfrom 1627. The shape is rather a trapezoid thana square, being forty feet long by thirty-five broadand forty-five high, the flat roof having a cubit ofdepression from south-west to north-east, wherea gold or gilt spout discharges the drainage. Thefoundation is a marble base two feet high, and presentsa sharp inclined plane.

All the Kaabah except the roof is covered witha kiswatu garment. It is a pall-like hanging, thework of a certain family at Cairo, and annuallyrenewed. The ground is dully black, and Koranicverses interwoven into it are shining black. Thereis a door curtain of gold thread upon red silk, anda bright band of similar material, called the face-veilof the house, two feet broad, runs horizontally roundthe Kaabah at two-thirds of its height. This coveringwhen new is tucked up by ropes from the roof;when old it is fastened to large metal rings weldedinto the basem*nt of the building. When thispeculiar adjunct to the shrine is swollen and movedby the breeze, pious Moslems believe that angelsare waving their wings over it.

The only entrance to the Kaabah is a narrow doorof aloe wood, in the eastern side. It is now raisedseven feet, and one enters it hoisted up in men’s arms.In A.D. 686, when the whole building took its presentshape, it was level with the external ground. TheKaabah opens gratis ten or twelve times a year,when crowds rush in and men lose their lives.Wealthy pilgrims obtain the favour by paying for it.Scrupulous Moslems do not willingly enter it, asthey may never afterwards walk about barefooted,take up fire with their fingers, or tell lies. It is notevery one who can afford such luxuries as slippers,tongs, and truth. Nothing is simpler than the interiorof the building. The walls are covered with handsomered damask, flowered over with gold, tucked upbeyond the pilgrim’s reach. The flat roof apparentlyrests upon three posts of carved and ornamentedaloe wood.

Between the three pillars, and about nine feet fromthe ground, run metal bars, to which hang lamps,said to be gold. At the northern corner there is adwarf door; it leads into a narrow passage and tothe dwarf staircase by which the servants ascend tothe roof. In the south-eastern corner is a quadrant-shapedsofa, also of aloe wood, and on it sits theguardian of the shrine.

The Hajar el Aswad, or black stone, of whichall the world talks, is fixed in the south-easternangle outside the house, between four and five feetfrom the ground, the more conveniently to be kissed.It shows a black and slaggy surface, glossy and pitch-like,worn and polished by myriads of lips; itsdiameter is about seven inches, and it appears onlyin the central aperture of a gilt or gold dish. Thedepth to which it extends into the wall is unknown:most people say two cubits.

Believers declare, with poetry, if not with reason,that in the day of Atast, when Allah made covenantconcerning the souls that animate the sons of Adam,the instrument was placed in a fragment of the lowerheaven, then white as snow, now black by reason ofmen’s sins. The rationalistic infidel opines this sacredcorner-stone to be a common aerolite, a remnant ofthe stone-worship which considered it the symbolof power presiding over universal reproduction, andinserted by Mohammed into the edifice of El Islam.This relic has fared ill; it has been stolen and broken,and has suffered other accidents.

Another remarkable part of the Kaabah is thatbetween the door and the black stone. It is calledthe multazem, or “attached to,” because here thepilgrim should apply his bosom, weep bitterly, andbeg pardon for his sins. In ancient times, accordingto some authors, it was the place for contractingsolemn engagements.

The pavement which surrounds the Kaabah is abouteight inches high, and the inside is marked by anoval balustrade of some score and a half of slender giltmetal pillars. Between every two of these cross rodssupport oil lamps, with globes of white and greenglasses. Gas is much wanted at Meccah! At thenorth end, and separated by a space of about five feetfrom the building, is El Hatrim, or the “broken,”a dwarf semi-circular wall, whose extremities areon a line with the sides of the Kaabah. In itsconcavity are two slabs of a finer stone, which coverthe remains of Ishmael, and of his mother Hagar.The former, I may be allowed to remark, is regardedby Moslems as the eldest son and legitimate successorof Abraham, in opposition to the Jews, who preferIsaac, the child of Sarai the free woman. It is anold dispute and not likely to be soon settled.

Besides the Kaabah, ten minor structures dot thevast quadrangle. The most important is the massivecovering of the well Zemzem. The word means“the murmuring,” and here the water gushed fromthe ground where the child Ishmael was shuffling hisfeet in the agonies of thirst. The supply is abundant,but I found it nauseously bitter; its external application,however, when dashed like a douche over thepilgrim, causes sins to fall from his soul like dust.

On the south-east, and near the well, are theKubbatayn, two domes crowning heavy ugly buildings,vulgarly painted with red, green, and yellow bands;one of these domes is used as a library. Directlyopposite the Kaabah door is a short ladder or staircaseof carved wood, which is wheeled up to the entrancedoor on the rare occasions when it is opened. Northof it is the inner Bab El Salam, or Gate of Security,under which the pilgrims pass in their first visit tothe shrine. It is a slightly built and detached arch ofstone, about fifteen feet of space in width and eighteenin height, somewhat like our meaningless triumphalarches, which come from no place and go nowhere.Between this and the Kaabah stands the MakamIbraham, or Station of Abraham, a small buildingcontaining the stone which supported the Friend ofAllah when he was building the house. It served fora scaffold, rising and falling of itself as required,and it preserved the impressions of Abraham’s feet,especially of the two big toes. Devout and wealthypilgrims fill the cavities with water, which they rubover their eyes and faces with physical as well asspiritual refreshment. To the north of it is a finewhite marble pulpit with narrow steps leading to thepreacher’s post, which is supported by a gilt andsharply tapering steeple. Lastly, opposite the northern,the western, and the south-eastern sides of the Kaabah,stand three ornamental pavilions, with light slopingroofs resting on slender pillars. From these therepresentatives of the three orthodox schools directthe prayers of their congregations. The Shafli, orfourth branch, collect between the corner of the wellZemzem and the Station of Abraham, whilst theheretical sects lay claim to certain mysterious andinvisible places of reunion.

I must now describe what the pilgrims do.

Entering with the boy Mohammed, who acted asmy mutawwif, or circuit guide, we passed throughthe inner Gate of Security, uttering various religiousformulas, and we recited the usual two-prostrationprayer in honour of the mosque at the Shafli placeof worship. We then proceeded to the angle ofthe house, in which the black stone is set, and thererecited other prayers before beginning tawaf, orcircumambulation. The place was crowded withpilgrims, all males—​women rarely appear during thehours of light. Bareheaded and barefooted theypassed the giant pavement, which, smooth as glassand hot as sun can make it, surrounds the Kaabah,suggesting the idea of perpetual motion. Meccansdeclare that at no time of the day or night is theplace ever wholly deserted.

Circumambulation consists of seven shauts, orrounds, of the house, to which the left shoulder isturned, and each noted spot has its peculiar prayers.The three first courses are performed at a brisk trot,like the French pas gymnastique. The four latterare leisurely passed. The origin of this custom isvariously accounted for. The general idea is thatMohammed directed his followers thus to showthemselves strong and active to the infidels, who haddeclared them to have been weakened by the airof El Medinah.

When I had performed my seven courses I foughtmy way through the thin-legged host of Bedouins, andkissed the black stone, rubbing my hands and foreheadupon it. There were some other unimportantdevotions, which concluded with a douche at the wellZemzem, and with a general almsgiving. The circumambulationceremony is performed several timesin the day, despite the heat. It is positive torture.

The visit to the Kaabah, however, does not entitlea man to be called haji. The essence of pilgrimageis to be present at the sermon pronounced by thepreacher on the Holy Hill of Arafat, distant abouttwelve miles from, and to the east of, Meccah. Thisperformed even in a state of insensibility is valid,and to die by the roadside is martyrdom, saving allthe pains and penalties of the tomb.

The visit, however, must be paid on the 8th, 9th,and the 10th of the month Zu’l Hijjah (the Lordof Pilgrimage), the last month of the Arab year. Atthis time there is a great throb through the frameworkof Moslem society from Gibraltar to Japan, and thosewho cannot visit the Holy City content themselveswith prayers and sacrifices at home. As the Moslemcomputation is lunar, the epoch retrocedes throughthe seasons in thirty-three years. When I visitedMeccah, the rites began on September 12th and endedon September 14th, 1853. In 1863 the openingday was June 8th; the closing, June 10th.

My readers will observe that the modern pilgrimageceremonies of the Moslem are evidently a commemorationof Abraham and his descendants. Thepractices of the Father of the Faithful when he issuedfrom the land of Chaldea seem to have formed areligious standard in the mind of the Arab law-giver,who preferred Abraham before all the other prophets,himself alone excepted.

The day after our arrival at Meccah was the YaumEl Tarwiyah (the Day of Carrying Water), the firstof the three which compose the pilgrimage seasonproper. From the earliest dawn the road was denselythronged with white-robed votaries, some walking,others mounted, and all shouting “Labbayk!” withall their might. As usual the scene was one ofstrange contrasts. Turkish dignitaries on finehorses, Bedouins bestriding swift dromedaries, themost uninteresting soldiery, and the most conspicuousbeggars. Before nightfall I saw no less thanfive exhausted and emaciated devotees give up theghost and become “martyrs.”

The first object of interest lies on the right-handside of the road. This was a high conical hill, knownin books as Tebel Hora, but now called Tebel Nur,or Mountain of Light, because there Mohammed’smind was first illuminated. The Cave of Revelationis still shown. It looks upon a wild scene. Eastwardand southward the vision is limited by abrupt hills.In the other directions there is a dreary landscape,with here and there a stunted acacia or a clump ofbrushwood growing on rough ground, where stonyglens and valleys of white sand, most of them water-coursesafter the rare rains, separate black, grey, andyellow rocks.

Passing over El Akabah (the Steeps), an importantspot in classical Arab history, we entered Muna,a hot hollow three or four miles from the barrenvalley of Meccah. It is a long, narrow, stragglingvillage of mud and stone houses, single storied anddouble storied, built in the common Arab style.We were fated to see it again. At noon we passedMugdalifah, or the Approacher, known to El Islamas the Minaret without the Mosque, and thus distinguishedfrom a neighbouring building, the Mosquewithout the Minaret. There is something peculiarlyimpressive in the tall, solitary, tower springing fromthe desolate valley of gravel. No wonder that theold Arab conquerors loved to give the high-soundingname of this oratory to distant points in theirextensive empire!

Here, as we halted for the noon prayer, the Damascuscaravan appeared in all its glory. The mahmal, orlitter, sent by the Sultan to represent his presence,no longer a framework as on the line of march, nowflashed in the sun all gold and green, and the hugewhite camel seemed to carry it with pride. Aroundthe moving host of peaceful pilgrims hovered a crowdof mounted Bedouins armed to the teeth. Thesepeople often visit Arafat for blood revenge; nothingcan be more sacrilegious than murder at such aseason, but they find the enemy unprepared. Astheir draperies floated in the wind and their faceswere swathed and veiled with their head-kerchiefs,it was not always easy to distinguish the sex of thewild beings who hurried past at speed. The womenwere unscrupulous, and many were seen emulating themen in reckless riding, and in striking with their sticksat every animal in their way.

Presently, after safely threading the gorge calledthe pass of the Two Rugged Hills, and celebrated foraccidents, we passed between the two “signs”—​whitewashedpillars, or, rather, tall towers, their wallssurmounted with pinnacles. They mark the limits ofthe Arafat Plain—​the Standing-Ground, as it is called.Here is sight of the Holy Hill of Arafat, standingboldly out from the fair blue sky, and backed by theazure peaks of Taif. All the pilgrim host raised loudshouts of “Labbayk!” The noise was that of a storm.

We then sought our quarters in the town of tentsscattered over two or three miles of plain at thesouthern foot of the Holy Hill, and there we passeda turbulent night of prayer.

I estimated the total number of devotees to be fiftythousand; usually it may amount to eighty thousand.The Arabs, however, believe that the total of those“standing on Arafat” cannot be counted, and thatif less than six hundred thousand human beings aregathered, the angels descend and make up the sum.Even in A.D. 1853 my Moslem friends declared thata hundred and fifty thousand immortal beings werepresent in mortal shape.

The Mount of Mercy, which is also called TebelIlál, or Mount of Wrestling in Prayer, is physicallyconsidered a mass of coarse granite, split into largeblocks and thinly covered with a coat of witheredthorns. It rises abruptly to a height of a hundred andeighty to two hundred feet from the gravelly flat,and it is separated by a sandy vale from the lastspur of the Taif hills. The dwarf wall encircling itgives the barren eminence a somewhat artificial look,which is not diminished by the broad flight of stepswinding up the southern face, and by the largestuccoed platform near the summit, where thepreacher delivers the “Sermon of the Standing.”

Arafat means “recognition,” and owes its nameand honours to a well-known legend. When our firstparents were expelled from Paradise, which, accordingto Moslems, is in the lowest of the seven heavens,Adam descended at Ceylon, Eve upon Arafat. Theformer, seeking his wife, began a journey to whichthe earth owes its present mottled appearance.Wherever he placed his foot a town arose in thefulness of time; between the strides all has remainedcountry. Wandering for many years he came to theHoly Hill of Arafat, the Mountain of Mercy, whereour common mother was continually calling upon hisname, and their recognition of each other there gave theplace its name. Upon the hill-top, Adam, instructedby the Archangel Gabriel, erected a prayer-station,and in its neighbourhood the pair abode until death.

It is interesting to know that Adam’s grave isshown at Muna, the village through which we hadpassed that day. The mosque covering his remainsis called El Kharf; his head is at one end of the longwall, his feet are at the other, and the dome covershis middle. Our first father’s forehead, we are told,originally brushed the skies, but this stature beingfound inconvenient, it was dwarfed to a hundred andfifty feet. Eve, again, is buried near the port ofMeccah—​Jeddah, which means the “grandmother.”She is supposed to lie, like a Moslemah, fronting theKaabah, with her head southwards, her feet to thenorth, and her right cheek resting on her right hand.Whitewashed and conspicuous to the voyager fromafar is the dome opening to the west, and coveringa square stone fancifully carved to represent hermiddle. Two low parallel walls about eighteen feetapart define the mortal remains of our mother, who,as she measured a hundred and twenty paces fromhead to waist and eighty from waist to heel, musthave presented in life a very peculiar appearance.The archæologist will remember that the great idolof Jeddah in the age of the Arab litholatry was a“long stone.”

The next day, the 9th of the month Zu’l Hijjah,is known as Yaum Arafat (the Day of Arafat). Afterablution and prayer, we visited sundry interestingplaces on the Mount of Mercy, and we breakfastedlate and copiously, as we could not eat again beforenightfall. Even at dawn the rocky hill was crowdedwith pilgrims, principally Bedouins and wild men, whohad secured favourable places for hearing the discourse.From noon onwards the hum and murmur of themultitude waxed louder, people swarmed here andthere, guns fired, and horsem*n and camelmen rushedabout in all directions. A discharge of cannon about2 p.m. announced that the ceremony of wukuf, orstanding on the Holy Hill, was about to commence.

The procession was headed by the retinue of theSherif, or Prince, of Meccah, the Pope of El Islam.A way for him was cleared through the dense mob ofspectators by a cloud of macebearers and by horsem*nof the desert carrying long bamboo spears tufted withblack ostrich feathers. These were followed by ledhorses, the proudest blood of Arabia, and by astalwart band of negro matchlock men. Five redand green flags immediately preceded the Prince, who,habited in plain pilgrim garb, rode a fine mule. Theonly sign of his rank was a fine green silk and goldumbrella, held over his head by one of his slaves. Hewas followed by his family and courtiers, and the rearwas brought up by a troop of Bedouins on horsesand dromedaries. The picturesque background ofthe scene was the granite hill, covered, wherever footcould be planted, with half-naked devotees, crying“Labbayk!” at the top of their voices, and violentlywaving the skirts of their gleaming garments. Itwas necessary to stand literally upon Arafat, but wedid not go too near, and a little way off sighted thepreacher sitting, after the manner of Mohammed, onhis camel and delivering the sermon. Slowly thecortège wound its way towards the Mount of Mercy.Exactly at afternoon prayer-time, the two mahmal,or ornamental litters, of Damascus and Cairo, tooktheir station side by side on a platform in the lowerpart of the hill. A little above them stood the Princeof Meccah, within hearing of the priest. The pilgrimscrowded around them. The loud cries were stilled,and the waving of white robes ceased.

Then the preacher began the “Sermon of theMount,” which teaches the devotees the duties of theseason. At first it was spoken without interruption;then: loud “Amin” and volleys of “Labbayk” explodedat certain intervals. At last the breeze becameladen with a purgatorial chorus of sobs, cries, andshrieks. Even the Meccans, who, like the sons ofother Holy Cities, are hardened to holy days, thoughtit proper to appear affected, and those unable tosqueeze out a tear buried their faces in the cornersof their pilgrim cloths. I buried mine—​at intervals.

The sermon lasted about three hours, and whensunset was near, the preacher gave the israf, orpermission to depart. Then began that risky partof the ceremony known as the “hurrying fromArafat.” The pilgrims all rushed down the Mountof Mercy with cries like trumpet blasts, and took theroad to Muna. Every man urged his beast to theuttermost over the plain, which bristled with pegs,and was strewn with struck tents. Pedestrians weretrampled, litters were crushed, and camels were thrown;here a woman, there a child, was lost, whilst nightcoming on without twilight added to the chaoticconfusion of the scene. The pass of the Two RuggedHills, where all the currents converged, was thecrisis, after which progress was easier. We spent,however, at least three hours in reaching Mugdalifah,and there we resolved to sleep. The minaret wasbrilliantly illuminated, but my companions apparentlythought more of rest and supper than of prayer.The night was by no means peaceful nor silent. Linesof laden beasts passed us every ten minutes, devoteesguarding their boxes from plunderers gave loudtokens of being wide awake, and the shouting oftravellers continued till near dawn.

The 10th of Zu’l Hijjah, the day following thesermon, is called Yaum Vahr (the Day of Camel Killing),or EEd El Kurban (the Festival of the Sacrifice), theKurban Bairam of the Turks. It is the most solemnof the year, and it holds amongst Moslems the rankwhich Easter Day claims from Christendom.

We awoke at daybreak, and exchanged with allaround us the compliments of the season—​“EEdKum mubarak”—​“May your festival be auspicious.”Then each man gathered for himself seven jamrah(bits of granite the size of a small bean), washed themin “seven waters,” and then proceeded to the westernend of the long street which forms the village ofMuna. Here is the place called the Great Devil,to distinguish it from two others, the Middle Deviland the First Devil, or the easternmost. Theoutward and visible signs are nothing but shortbuttresses of whitewashed masonry placed against arough wall in the main thoroughfare. Some derivethe rite from the days of Adam, who put to flightthe Evil One by pelting him, as Martin Luther didwith the inkstand. Others opine that the ceremonyis performed in imitation of Abraham, who, meetingSathanas at Muna, and being tempted to disobediencein the matter of sacrificing his son, was commandedby Allah to drive him away with stones. Pilgrimsapproach if possible within five paces of the pillar, andthrow at it successfully seven pebbles, holding eachone between the thumb and forefinger of the righthand, either extended, or shooting it as a boy doesa marble. At every cast they exclaim: “In the nameof Allah, and Allah is almighty! In hatred to theFiend and to his shame I do this!” It is one ofthe local miracles that all the pebbles thus flungreturn by spiritual agency whence they came.

As Satan was malicious enough to appear in arugged lane hardly forty feet broad, the place wasrendered dangerous by the crowd. On one sidestood the devil’s buttress and wall, bristling withwild men and boys. Opposite it was a row oftemporary booths tenanted by barbers, and the spacebetween swarmed with pilgrims, all trying to getat the enemy of mankind. A monkey might haverun over the heads of the mob. Amongst themwere horsem*n flogging their steeds, Bedouins urgingfrightened camels, and running footmen opening pathsfor the grandees, their masters, by assault and battery.We congratulated each other, the boy Mohammedand I, when we escaped with trifling hurts. SomeMoslem travellers assert, by way of miracle, that noman was ever killed during the ceremony of rajm,or lapidation. Several Meccans, however, assuredme that fatal accidents are by no means rare.

After throwing the seven pebbles, we doffedour pilgrim garb, and returned to ihlal, or normalattire.

The barber placed us upon an earthen bench inthe open shop, shaved our heads, trimmed our beards,and pared our nails, causing us to repeat after him:“I purpose throwing off my ceremonial attire, accordingto the practice of the Prophet—​whom may Allahbless and preserve! O Allah, grant to me for everyhair a light, a purity, and a generous reward! Inthe name of Allah, and Allah is almighty!” Thebarber then addressed me: “Naiman”—​“Pleasureto thee!”—​and I responded: “Allah, give theepleasure!” Now we could at once use cloths tocover our heads, and slippers to defend our feet fromfiery sun and hot soil, and we might safely twirl ourmustachios and stroke our beards—​placid enjoymentsof which we had been deprived by the ceremoniallaw.

The day ended with the sacrifice of an animal tocommemorate the substitution of a ram for Ishmael,the father of the Arabs. The place of the originaloffering is in the Muna Valley, and it is still visitedby pilgrims. None but the Kruma, the Pacha, andhigh dignitaries slaughter camels. These beasts arekilled by thrusting a knife into the interval betweenthe throat and the breast, the muscles of the wind-pipebeing too hard and thick to cut; their flesh islawful to the Arabs, but not to the Hebrews. Oxen,sheep, and goats are made to face the Kaabah, andtheir throats are cut, the sacrificer ejacul*ting: “Inthe name of Allah! Allah is almighty!” It ismeritorious to give away the victim without eatingany part of it, and thus crowds of poor pilgrimswere enabled to regale themselves.

There is a terrible want of cleanliness in thissacrifice. Thousands of animals are cut up and leftunburied in this “Devil’s Punchbowl.” I leave therest to the imagination. Pilgrims usually pass inthe Muna Valley the Days of Flesh Drying—​namely,the 11th, the 12th, and the 13th of the monthZu’l Hijjah—​and on the two former the Great,the Middle, and the Little Satan are again pelted.The standing miracles of the place are that beastsand birds cannot prey there, nor can flies settle uponprovisions exposed in the markets. But animals arefrightened away by the bustling crowds, and flies arefound in myriads. The revolting scene, aided by asteady temperature of 120° Fahr., has more than oncecaused a desolating pestilence at Meccah: the choleraof 1865 has been traced back to it; in fine, the safetyof Europe demands the reformation of this filthyslaughter-house, which is still the same.

The pilgrimage rites over, we returned to Meccahfor a short sojourn. Visitors are advised, and wisely,not to linger long in the Holy City after the conclusionof the ceremonies. Use soon spoils themarvels, and, after the greater excitements, all becomesflat, stale, and unprofitable. The rite called umrah,or the “little pilgrimage,” and the running betweenMounts Safa and Marwah, in imitation of Hagarseeking her child, remain to be performed. Andthere are many spots of minor sanctity to be visited,such as the Jannal El Maala, or Cemetery of the Saints,the mosque where the genii paid fealty to the Prophet,the house where Mohammed was born, that in whichhe lived with his first wife, Khadijah, and in whichhis daughter Fatimah and his grandsons Hasan andHussayn saw the light, the place where the stonegave the founder of El Islam God-speed, and about adozen others. Men, however, either neglect themor visit them cursorily, and think of little now beyondreturning home.

I must briefly sketch the Holy City before we bidit adieu.

Meccah, also called Beccah, the words beingsynonymous, signifies according to some a “placeof great concourse,” is built between 21° and 22° ofN. Lat. and in 39° E. Long. (Greenwich).[5] It istherefore more decidedly tropical than El Medinah,and the parallel corresponds with that of Cuba. Theorigin of the Bayt Ullah is lost in the glooms oftime, but Meccah as it now stands is a comparativelymodern place, built in A.D. 450 by Kusayr theKuraysh. It is a city colligated together like Jerusalemand Rome. The site is a winding valley in the midstof many little hills; the effect is that it offers nogeneral coup d’œil. Thus the views of Meccah knownto Europe are not more like Meccah than like Cairoor Bombay.

The utmost length of the Holy City is two milesand a half from the Mab’dah, or northern suburb,to the southern mound called Jiyad. The extremebreadth may be three-quarters between the AbuKubays hill on the east and the Kaykaan, orKuwaykaan, eminence on the west. The mass ofhouses clusters at the western base of Abu Kubays.The mounts called Safa and Marwah extend from AbuKubays to Kayhaan, and are about seven hundredand eighty cubits apart. The great temple is nearthe centre of the city, as the Kaabah is near themiddle of the temple. Upon Jebel Jiyad the Greaterthere is a fort held by Turkish soldiery; it seemsto have no great strength. In olden time Meccahhad walls and gates; now there are none.

The ground in and about the Holy City is sandyand barren, the hills are rocky and desert. Meat,fruits, and vegetables must be imported viâ Jeddah,the port, distant about forty-five miles. The climateis exceedingly hot and rarely tempered by the seabreeze. I never suffered so much from temperatureas during my fortnight at Meccah.

The capital of the Hejaz, which is about doublethe size of El Medinah, has all the conveniences ofa city. The streets are narrow, deep, and well watered.The houses are durable and well built of brick mixedwith granite and sandstone, quarried in the neighbouringhills. Some of them are five stories high, andmore like fortresses than dwelling-places. The lime,however, is bad, and after heavy rain, sometimes tendays in the year, those of inferior structure fall inruins. None but the best have open-work of brickand courses of coloured stone. The roofs are madeflat to serve for sleeping-places, the interiors aresombre to keep out the heat; they have jutting upperstories, as in the old town of Brazil, and huge latticedhanging balconies—​the maswrabujah of Cairo, herecalled the shamiyah—​project picturesquely into thestreets and the small squares in which the city abounds.

The population is guessed at forty-five thousandsouls. The citizens appeared to me more civilisedand more vicious than those of El Medinah, and theirhabit of travel makes them a worldly-wise and God-forgettingand Mammonist sort of folk. “Circumambulateand run between Mounts Safa andMarwah and do the seven deadly sins,” is a satirepopularly levelled against them. Their redeemingqualities are courage, bonhomie, manners at oncemanly and suave, a fiery sense of honour, strongfamily affections, and a near approach to what we callpatriotism. The dark half of the picture is pride,bigotry, irreligion, greed of gain, debauchery, andprodigal ostentation.

Unlike his brother of El Medinah, the Meccanis a swarthy man. He is recognised throughout theeast by three parallel gashes down each cheek, fromthe exterior angles of the eyes to the corners of themouth. These mashali, as they call them, areclean contrary to the commands of El Islam. Thepeople excuse the practice by saying that it preservestheir children from being kidnapped, and it isperformed the fortieth day after birth.

The last pilgrimage ceremony performed at Meccahis the Tawaf el Widaaf, or circumambulation offarewell, a solemn occasion. The devotee walksround the House of Allah, he drinks the water ofthe Zemzem well, he kisses the threshold of the door,and he stands for some time with his face and bosompressed against the multazem wall, clinging to thecurtain, reciting religious formulas, blessing theProphet, weeping if possible, but at least groaning.He then leaves the temple, backing out of it withmany salutations till he reaches the Gate of Farewell,when, with a parting glance at the Kaabah, he turnshis face towards home.

I will not dwell upon my return journey—​how,accompanied by the boy Mohammed, I reached Jeddahon the Red Sea, how my countrymen refused for atime to believe me, and how I sadly parted with myMoslem friends. My wanderings ended for a time,and, worn out with fatigue and with the fatal fieryheat, I steamed out of Jeddah on September 26th inthe little Dwarka, and on October 3rd, 1853, aftersix months’ absence from England, I found myselfsafely anchored in Suez Harbour.

[5] Both latitude and longitude are disputed points, as the followingtable shows. The Arabs, it must be remembered, placed the firstmeridian at the Fortunate Islands:

Humbodlt, therefore, is hardly right to say: “L’erreur est que le Mecqueparaissait déjà aux Arabes de 19° trop a l’est” (“Correspondence,”p. 459).

A RIDE TO HARAR
1854-1855

A RIDE TO HARAR

THE pilgrimage to Meccah being a thing of thepast, and the spirit of unrest still strong withinme, I next turned my thoughts to the hot depths ofthe Dark Continent. Returning to Bombay early in1854, I volunteered to explore the Land of the Somali,the eastern horn of Africa, extending from CapeGuardafui (N. Lat. 12°) to near the Equator. Formany years naval officers had coasted along it; manyof our ships had been lost there, and we had carefullyshot their wreckers and plunderers. But no moderntraveller had ventured into the wild depths, and wewere driven for information to the pages of FatherLobo, of Salt, and de Rienzi.

My project aimed at something higher; and indeedit was this journey which led directly to the discoveryof the sources of the Nile, so far as they are yetdiscovered.

I had read in Ptolemy (I., par. 9) the followingwords: “Then concerning the navigation betweenthe Aromata Promontory (i.e., Guardafui) and Rhapta(the ‘place of seven ships,’ generally supposed to benorth of Kilwa), Marianus of Tyre declares that acertain Diogenes, one of those sailing to India …when near Aromata and having the Troglodytic regionon the right (some of the Somali were still cave-dwellers),reached, after twenty-five days’ march, the lakes (pluraland not dual) whence the Nile flows and of whichPoint Raphta is a little south.”

This remarkable passage was to me a revelation; itwas the mot de l’enigme, the way to make the eggstand upright, the rending of the veil of Isis. Thefeat for which Julius Cæsar would have relinquisheda civil war, the secret which kings from Nero toMahommet Ali vainly attempted to solve, thediscovery of which travellers, from Herodotus toBruce, have risked their lives, was reduced to comparativefacility. For the last three thousand yearsexplorers had been working, literally and metaphorically,against the stream, where disease and savagery hadexhausted health and strength, pocket and patience, atthe very beginning of the end. I therefore resolvedto reverse the operation, and thus I hoped to see theyoung Nile and to stultify a certain old proverb.

The Court of Directors of the Honourable EastIndia Company unwillingly sanctioned my project: Iwas too clever by half, and they suspected that itconcealed projects of annexation or conquest. Allthat my political views aimed at was to secure thesupremacy of my country in the Red Sea. DespiteLord Palmerston and Robert Stephenson, I foresawthat the Suez Canal would be a success, and I proposedto purchase for the sum of £10,000 all the portson the East African shore as far south as Berbera.This was refused; I was sternly reprimanded, andthe result will presently appear.

In July of the same year we reached Aden fromBombay. Our little party was composed of LieutenantHerne and Lieutenant Stroyan, with myself in command.Before setting out I permitted LieutenantJ. H. Speke to join us; he was in search of Africansport, and, being a stranger, he was glad to findcompanions. This officer afterwards accompanied meto Central Africa, and died at Bath on Thursday,September 15th, 1864.

Aden—​“eye of Yemen,” the “coal-hole of theEast” (as we call it), the “dry and squalid city”of Abulfeda—​gave me much trouble. It is one ofthe worst, if not the worst, places of residence towhich Anglo-Indians can be condemned. The townoccupies the crater floor of an extinct volcano whosenorthern wall, a grim rock of bare black basalt knownas Jebel Shamsham, is said to be the sepulchre ofKabil, or Cain, and certainly the First Murderer liesin an appropriate spot. Between May and Octoberthe climate is dreadful. The storms of unclean dustnecessitate candles at noon, and not a drop of rainfalls, whilst high in the red hot air you see the cloudsrolling towards the highlands of the interior, wheretheir blessed loads will make Arabia happy. InYemen—​Arabia Felix—​there are bubbling springsand fruits and vineyards, sweet waters, fertilising suns,and cool nights. In Aden and its neighbourhood allis the abomination of desolation.

The miseries of our unfortunate troops might havebeen lightened had we originally occupied the truekey of the Red Sea, the port of Berbera on theSomali coast opposite Aden. But the step had beentaken; the authorities would not say “Peccavi” andundo the past. Therefore we died of fever anddysentery; the smallest wound became a fearfululcer which destroyed limb or life. Even in health,existence without appetite or sleep was a pest. Ihad the audacity to publish these facts, and had oncemore to pay the usual penalty for telling the truth.

The English spirit suffers from confinement behindany but wooden walls, and the Aden garrison displayeda timidity which astonished me. The fierce faces,the screaming voices, and the frequent faction fightsof the savage Somali had cowed our countrymen, andthey were depressed by a “peace at any price” policy.Even the Brigadier commanding, General (afterwardsSir) James Outram, opposed my explorations, and theleader was represented as a madman leading others toa certain and cruel death.

I at once changed my plans. To prove that thejourney presented no real danger, I offered to visitalone what was considered the most perilous partof the country and explore Harar, the capital ofthe terra incognita. But to prevent my beingdetained meanwhile, I stationed my companions onthe African coast with orders to seize and stopthe inland caravans—​a measure which would havehad the effect of releasing me. This is a seriousdanger in Abyssinian travel: witness the case ofPedro Cavilham in 1499, and the unfortunate ConsulCameron in our own day. Those “namelessEthiopians,” the older savages, sacrificed strangers totheir gods. The modern only keep them in irons,flog them, and starve them.

At the time I went few but professed geographersknew even the name of Harar, or suspected that withinthree hundred miles of Aden there is a counterpartof ill-famed Timbuctu. Travellers of all nations hadattempted it in vain; men of science, missionaries,and geographers had all failed. It was said that someHamitu prophet had read decline and fall in the firstfootsteps of the Frank, and that the bigoted barbarianshad threatened death to the infidel caught withintheir walls. Yet it was worth seeing, especially inthose days, when few were the unvisited cities of theworld. It has a stirring history, a peculiar race andlanguage, it coins its own money, and it exports thefinest coffee known. Finally it is the southernmosttown in Tropical Africa.

On April 28th, 1854, in an open boat, I left Adenalone, without my companions, re-becoming El HajjAbdullah, the Arab. My attendants were Mohammedand Guled, two Somali policemen bound to keep mysecret for the safety of their own throats. I afterwardsengaged one Abdy Abokr, a kind of hedge-priest,whose nickname was the “End of Time,” meaningthe ne plus ultra of villainy. He was a caution—​abad tongue, a mischievous brain, covetous andwasteful, treacherous as a hyena, revengeful as acamel, timorous as a jackal.

Three days of summer sail on the “blind billows”and the “singing waves” of the romantic Arabgeographers landed us at Zayla, alias Andal, theclassical Sinus Avaliticus, to the south-west of Aden.During the seventh century it was the capital of akingdom which measured forty-three by forty days’march; now the Bedouin rides up to its walls. Thesite is the normal Arabo-African scene, a strip ofsulphur-yellow sand with a deep blue dome aboveand a foreground of indigo-coloured sea; behind itlies the country, a reeking desert of loose white sandand brown clay, thinly scattered with thorny shruband tree. The buildings are a dozen large housesof mud and coralline rubble painfully whitewashed.There are six mosques—​green little battlementedthings with the Wahhali dwarf tower by wayof minaret, and two hundred huts of dingy palm-leaf.

The population of fifteen thousand souls has nota good name—​Zayla boasting or vanity and Kurayehpride is a proverb. They are managed by fortyTurkish soldiers under a Somali Governor, the HajjShermarkuy, meaning “one who sees no harm.”The tall old man was a brave in his youth; hecould manage four spears, and his sword-cut wasknown. He always befriended English travellers.

The only thing in favour of Zayla is its cheapness.A family of six persons can live well on £30 perannum. Being poor, the people are idle, and thehateful “Inshalla bukra”—​“To-morrow if Allahpleases”—​and the Arab “tenha paciencia,” “amanha,”and “espere um pouco” is the rule.

I was delayed twenty-seven days whilst a routewas debated upon, mules were sent for, camelswere bought, and an abban, or protector-guide, wassecured. Hereabouts no stranger could travel withoutsuch a patron, who was paid to defend his client’slife and property. Practically he took his moneyand ran away.

On the evening of November 27th, 1864, thecaravan was ready. It consisted of five camels ladenwith provisions, cooking-pots, ammunition, and ourmoney—​that is to say, beads, coarse tobacco, Americansheeting, Indian cotton, and indigo-dyed stuffs. Theescort was formed by the two policemen, the “Endof Time,” and Yusuf, a one-eyed lad from Zayla, withthe guide and his tail of three followers. My menwere the pink of Somali fashion. They had stainedtheir hair of a light straw colour by plastering it withashes; they had teased it till it stood up a full foot,and they had mutually spirted upon their wigs meltedtallow, making their heads look like giant cauliflowersthat contrasted curiously with the bistre-colouredskins. Their tobes (togas) were dazzlingly white,with borders dazzlingly red. Outside the dress wasstrapped a horn-hilted two-edged dagger, long andheavy; their shields of rhinoceros hide were brandnew, and their two spears poised upon the rightshoulder were freshly scraped and oiled, and blackenedand polished. They had added my spare rifle andguns to the camel loads—​the things were well enoughin Aden, but in Somali we would deride such strange,unmanly weapons. They balanced themselves upondwarf Abyssinian saddles, extending the leg andraising the heel like the haute école of Louis XIV.The stirrup was an iron ring admitting only the bigtoe, and worse than that of the Sertanejo.

As usual in this country, where the gender masculinewill not work, we had two cooks—​tall, buxom,muscular dames, chocolate skinned and round faced.They had curiously soft and fluted voices, hardly tobe expected from their square and huge-hipped figures,and contrasting agreeably with the harsh organs ofthe men. Their feet were bare, their veil was confinedby a narrow fillet, and the body-cloth was anindigo-dyed cotton, girt at the waist and gracefulas a winding sheet. I never saw them eat; probably,as the people say of cooks, they lived by suckingtheir fingers.

And here a few words about the Somali, amongstwhom we were to travel. These nomads were notpure negroes; like the old Egyptians, they were amixed breed of African and Arab. The face fromthe brow to the nostrils is Asiatic, from the nostrilsto the chin showed traces of negro blood. The hairwas African; they decorated it by a sheep-skin wigcut to the head and died fiery orange with henna.The figure was peculiar, the shoulders were highand narrow, the trunk was small, the limbs werespider-like, and the forearm was often of simianproportions.

The Somali were a free people, lawless as free. TheBritish Government would not sanction their beingsold as slaves. Of course they enslaved others, andthey had a servile caste called Midyan, who werethe only archers. They had little reverence for theirown chiefs except in council, and they discussedevery question in public, none hesitating to offer thewildest conjectures. At different times they suggestedthat I was a Turk, an Egyptian, a Marah man, aBanyan, Ahmad the Indian, the Governor of Aden,a merchant, a pilgrim, the chief of Zayla or his son,a boy, a warrior in silver armour, an old woman, aman painted white, and lastly, a calamity sent downfrom heaven to tire out the lives of the Somali.

The Somali were bad Moslems, but they believedin a deity and they knew the name of their Prophet.Wives being purchased for their value in cows orcamels, the wealthy old were polygamous and theyoung poor were perforce bachelors. They workedmilk-pots of tree-fibre like the beer-baskets of Kaffir-land.They were not bad smiths, but they confinedtheir work to knives, spear-heads, and neat bits fortheir unshod horses. Like the Kaffirs, they calledbright iron “rotten,” and they never tempered it.Like all Africans, they were very cruel riders.

These nomads had a passion for independence, andyet when placed under a strong arm they were easilydisciplined. In British Aden a merry, laughing,dancing, and fighting race, at home they were amoping, melancholy people; for this their lives ofperpetual danger might account. This insecuritymade them truly hard-hearted. I have seen themwhen shifting camp barbarously leave behind for thehyenas their sick and decrepit parents. When thefatal smallpox breaks out, the first cases are oftenspeared and the huts burned over the still warmcorpse.

The Somali deemed nothing so noble as murder.The more cowardly the deed is, the better, as showingthe more “nous.” Even the midnight butchery ofa sleeping guest is highly honourable. The heroplants a rish, or white ostrich feather, in his tuftypole and walks about the admired of all admirers,whilst the wives of those who have not received thisorder of merit taunt their husbands as noirs fainéants.Curious to say, the Greek and Roman officers usedto present these plumes to the bravest of their officersfor wearing on their helmet.

My journey began with the hard alluvial plain,forty-five to fifty-eight miles broad, between the seaand the mountains. It belonged to the Eesa, a tribeof Somali Bedouins, and how these “sun-dwellers”could exist there was a mystery. On the secondday we reached a kraal consisting of gurgi, ordiminutive hide huts. There was no thorn fenceas is required in the lion-haunted lands to the west.The scene was characteristic of that pastoral lifewhich supplies poetry with Arcadian images andhistory with its blackest tragedies. Whistling shepherds,tall thin men, spear in hand, bore the younglingsof the herd in their bosoms or drove to pasturethe long-necked camels preceded by a patriarch witha wooden bell. Patches of Persian sheep with snowybodies and jetty faces flecked the tawny plain, andflocks of goats were committed to women dressedin skins and boys who were unclad till the days ofpuberty. Some led the ram, around whose neck acord of white heather was tied for luck. Othersfrisked with the dogs, animals by no means contemptiblein the eyes of these Bedouin Moslems. All beggedfor bori—​the precious tobacco—​their only narcotic.They run away if they see smoke, and they suspecta kettle to be a mortal weapon. So the Bachwanascalled our cannon, “pots.” Many of these wildpeople had never tasted grain and had never heardof coffee or sugar. During the rains they lived onmilk; in the dries they ate meat, avoiding, however,the blood. Like other races to the north and south,they would not touch fish or birds, which they comparedto snakes and vultures. “Speak not to mewith that mouth that has tasted fish!” is a direinsult.

The Eesa were a typical Somali tribe; it mighthave numbered one hundred thousand spears, and ithad a bad name. “Treacherous as an Eesa,” is aproverb at Zayla, where it is said these savageswould offer you a bowl of milk with the left handand would stab you with the right. Their lives werespent in battle and murder.

The next march, a total of fifty-two miles, nearlylost us. Just before reaching the mountains whichsubtend the coast, we crossed the warm trail of arazzia, or cavalcade: some two hundred of the HabrAwal, our inveterate enemies, had been scouring thecountry. Robinson Crusoe was less scared by thefootprint than were my companions. Our weakparty numbered only nine men, of whom all exceptMohammed and Guled were useless, and the firstcharge would have been certain death.

Escaping this danger, we painfully endured therocks and thorns of the mountains and wilds. Thethird march placed us at Halimalah, a sacred treeabout half-way between this coast and our destination—​Harar.It is a huge sycamore suggesting thehiero-sykaminon of Egypt. The Gallas are stilltree-worshippers, and the Somali respect this venerablevegetable as do the English their Druidicalmistletoe.

We were well received at the kers (the kraals orvillages). They were fenced with large and terriblethorns, an effectual defence against barelegged men.The animals had a place apart—​semi-circular beehivesmade of grass mats mounted on sticks. The furnitureconsisted of weapons, hides, wooden pillows andmats for beds, pots of woven fibre, and horse gear.We carried our own dates and rice, we bought meatand the people supplied us with milk gratis—​to sellit was a disgrace. Fresh milk was drunk only bythe civilised; pastoral people preferred it when artificiallycurdled and soured.

We soon rose high above sea-level, as the coldnights and the burning suns told us. The eighthmarch placed us on the Ban Marar, a plain twenty-sevenmiles broad—​at that season a waterless stubble,a yellow nap, dotted with thorny trees and bushes,and at all times infamous for robbery and murder.It was a glorious place for game: in places it wasabsolutely covered with antelopes, and every randomshot must have told in the immense herds.

Here I had the distinction of being stalked by alion. As night drew in we were urging our jadedmules over the western prairie towards a dusky lineof hills. My men proceeded whilst I rode in rearwith a double-barrelled gun at full co*ck across myknees. Suddenly my animal trembled and bolted forwardwith a sidelong glance of fear. I looked backand saw, within some twenty yards, the king of beastscreeping up silently as a cat. To fire both barrels inthe direction of my stalker was the work of a second.I had no intention of hitting, as aim could not betaken in the gloaming, and to wound would have beenfatal. The flame and the echoed roar from the hillsmade my friend slink away. Its intention was,doubtless, to crawl within springing distance and thenby a bound on my neck to have finished my journeythrough Somaliland and through life. My companionsshouted in horror “Libah! libah!”—​“Thelion! the lion!”—​and saw a multitude of lions thatnight.

After crossing the desert prairie, we entered thehills of the agricultural Somali, the threshold of theSouth Abyssinian mountains. The pastoral scenenow changed for waving crops of millet, birds inflights, and hedged lanes, where I saw with pleasurethe dog-rose. Guided by a wild fellow calledAltidon, we passed on to the Sagharah, the villageof the Gerad, or chief, Adan. He had not a goodname, and I was afterwards told he was my principaldanger. But we never went anywhere without ourweapons, and the shooting of a few vultures on thewing was considered a great feat where small shot isunknown. “He brings down birds from the sky!”exclaimed the people.

I must speak of the Gerad, however, as I foundhim—​a civil and hospitable man, greedy, of course,suspicious, and of shortsighted policy.

His good and pretty wife Kayrah was very kind, andsupplied me with abundance of honey wine, the merissaof Abyssinia. It tasted like champagne to a palatelong condemned to total abstinence, without even tea.

We were now within thirty direct miles of Harar,and my escort made a great stand. The chief Adanwanted to monopolise us and our goods. My men,therefore, were threatened with smallpox, the bastinado,lifelong captivity in unlit dungeons, and similaramenities.

On June 2nd, 1855, sent for our mules. Theywere missing. An unpleasantness was the consequence,and the animals appeared about noon. I saddled myown—​no one would assist me. When, mounted andgun in hand, I rode up to my followers, who sat sulkilyon the ground, and observing that hitherto their actshad not been those of the brave, I suggested thatbefore returning to Aden we should do something ofmanliness. They arose, begged me not to speak suchwords, and offered to advance if I would promise toreward them should we live and to pay blood-moneyto their friends in case of the other contingency.They apparently attached much importance to what isvulgarly termed “cutting up well.”

Now, however, we were talking reason, and Isettled all difficulties by leaving a letter addressed tothe Political Resident at Aden. Mohammed andGuled were chosen to accompany me, the rest remainingwith the Gerad Adan. I must say for mycompanions that once in the saddle they shook offtheir fears; they were fatalists, and they believed inmy star, whilst they had the fullest confidence in theirpay or pension.

The country now became romantic and beautiful—​aconfusion of lofty stony mountains, plantations of thefinest coffee, scatters of villages, forests of noble trees,with rivulets of the coolest and clearest water. Wehere stood some five thousand five hundred feet high,and although only nine degrees removed from theLine, the air was light and pleasant. It made meremember the climate of Aden, and hate it.

We slept en route, and on January 3rd we firstsighted Harar City. On the crest of a hill distanttwo miles it appeared, a long sombre line strikinglycontrasting with the whitewashed settlements of themore civilised East, and nothing broke the outlineexcept the two grey and rudely shaped minarets of theJami, or Maritz (cathedral). I almost grudged theexposure of three lives to win so paltry a prize. Butof all Europeans who had attempted it before menot one had succeeded in entering that ugly pile ofstones.

We then approached the city gate and sat there, asis the custom, till invited to enter. Presently we wereordered to the palace by a chamberlain, a man withloud and angry voice and eyes.

At the entrance of the palace we dismounted bycommand, and we were told to run across the court,which I refused to do. We were then placed undera tree in one corner of the yard and to the right ofthe palace. The latter is a huge, windowless barnof rough stone and red clay, without other insigniabut a thin coat of whitewash over the doorway.

Presently we were beckoned in and told to doff ourslippers. A curtain was raised, and we stood in thepresence of the then Amir of Harar, Sultan Ahmedbin Sultan Abibaki.

The sight was savage, if not imposing. The hallof audience was a dark room, eighty to ninety feetlong, and its whitewashed walls were hung with rustyfetters and bright matchlocks. At the further end, ona common East Indian cane sofa, sat a small yellowpersonage—​the great man. He wore a flowing robeof crimson cloth edged with snowy fur, and a narrowwhite turban twisted round a tall conical cap of redvelvet. Ranged in double ranks perpendicular to thepresence and nearest to the chief were his favouritesand courtiers, with right arms bared after the fashionof Abyssinia. Prolonging these parallel lines towardsthe door were Galla warriors, wild men with bushywigs. Shining rings of zinc on their arms, wrists,and ankles formed their principal attire. They stoodmotionless as statues; not an eye moved, and eachright hand held up a spear with an enormous head ofmetal, the heel being planted in the ground.

I entered with a loud “As ’salem alaykum”—​“Peacebe upon ye!”—​and the normal answer wasreturned. A pair of chamberlains then led me forwardto bow over the chief’s hand. He directed me to siton a mat opposite to him, and with lowering brow andinquisitive glance he asked what might be my businessin Harar. It was the crisis. I introduced myselfas an Englishman from Aden coming to report thatcertain changes had taken place there, in the hopethat the “cordial intent” might endure between thekingdoms of Harar and England.

The Amir smiled graciously. I must admit thatthe smile was a relief to me. It was a joy to myattendants, who sat on the ground behind their master,grey-brown with emotion, and mentally inquiring,“What next?”

The audience over, we were sent to one of theAmir’s houses, distant about one hundred paces fromthe palace. Here cakes of sour maize (fuba), soakedin curdled milk, and lumps of beef plenteouslypowdered with pepper, awaited us. Then we weredirected to call upon Gerad Mohammed, Grand Vizierof Harar. He received us well, and we retired to restnot dissatisfied with the afternoon’s work. We hadeaten the chief’s bread and salt.

During my ten days’ stay at Harar I carefullyobserved the place and its people. The city waswalled and pierced with five large gates, flanked bytowers, but was ignorant of cannon. The streets—​narrowlanes strewed with rocks and rubbish—​wereformed by houses built of granite and sandstonefrom the adjacent mountains. The best abodes weredouble storied, long and flat roofed, with holes forwindows placed jealously high up, and the doorswere composed of a single plank. The women, Ineed hardly say, had separate apartments. The cityabounded in mosques—​plain buildings without minarets—​andthe graveyards were stuffed with tombs—​oblongsformed by slabs placed edgeways in the ground.

The people, numbering about eight thousand souls,had a bad name among their neighbours. The Somalisay that Harar is a “paradise inhabited by asses”;and “hard as the heart of Harar” is a byword.The junior members of the royal family were imprisonedtill wanted for the throne. Amongst themen I did not see a handsome face or hear onepleasant voice. The features were harsh and plain,the skin was a sickly brown, the hair and beardwere short and untractable, and the hands and feetwere large and coarse. They were celebrated forlaxity of morals, fondness for strong waters, muchpraying, coffee-drinking, and chewing tobacco andkat, a well-known theme plant. They had a considerablecommerce with the coast, which was reachedby a large caravan once a year.

The women were beautiful by the side of theirlords. They had small heads, regular profiles, straightnoses, large eyes, mouths almost Caucasian, and lightbrown skins. The hair, parted in the centre andgathered into two large bunches behind the ears,was covered with dark blue muslin or network,whose ends were tied under the chin. Girls collectedtheir locks, which were long, thick, and wavy—​notwiry—​into a knot à la Diane; a curtain of shortclose plaits escaping from the bunch fell upon theshoulders. The dress was a wide frock of chocolateor indigo-dyed cotton, girt round the middle witha sash; before and behind there was a triangle ofscarlet with the point downwards. The ornamentswere earrings and necklaces of black buffalo horn,the work of Western India. The bosom wastattooed with stars, the eyebrows were lengthenedwith dyes, the eyes were fringed with antimony,and the palms and soles were stained red. Thosepretty faces had harsh voices, their manners wererude, and I regret to say that an indiscreet affectionfor tobacco and honey wine sometimes led to a publicbastinado.

At Harar was a university which supplied Somalilandwith poor scholars and crazy priests. Therewere no endowments for students—​learning was itsown reward—​and books (manuscripts) were rare andcostly. Only theology was studied. Some of thegraduates had made a name in the Holy Land ofArabia, where few ranked higher than my friend ShaykhJami el Berteri. To be on the safer side he wouldnever touch tobacco or coffee. I liked his conversation,but I eschewed his dinners.

Harar—​called Gay or Harar Gay by her sons—​isthe capital of Hadiyah, a province of the ancientZala empire, and her fierce Moslems nearly extirpatedChristianity from Shoa and Amara. The localAttila Mohammed Gragne, or the “Left-Handed,”slew in 1540 David III., the last Ethiopian monarchwho styled himself “King of Kings.”

David’s successor, Claudius, sent imploring messagesto Europe, and D. Joao III. ordered the chivalrousStephen and Christopher da Gama, sons of Vascoda Gama, to the rescue. The Portuguese couldoppose only three hundred and fifty muskets and arabble rout of Abyssinians to ten thousand Moslems.D. Christopher was wounded, taken prisoner, anddecapitated. Good Father Lobo declares that “wherethe martyr’s head fell, a fountain sprung up of wonderfulvirtue, which cured many hopeless diseases.”

Eventually Gragne was shot by one Pedro Leao,a Portuguese soldier who was bent upon revenginghis leader’s fall. The Moslem’s wife, Tamwalbara,prevented the dispersion of the army, making a slavepersonate her dead husband, and drew off his forcesin safety. A strong-minded woman!

My days at Harar were dull enough. At firstwe were visited by all the few strangers of the city,but they soon thought it prudent to shun us. Thereport of my “English brethren” being on the coastmade them look upon me as a mufsid, or dangerousman. The Somali, on the other hand, in complimentto my attendants, were most attentive. It washarvest home, and we had opportunity of seeing therevels of the threshers and reapers—​a jovial race,slightly “dipsomaniac.”

Harar also was the great half-way house and restingplace for slaves between Abyssinia and the coast.In making purchases, the adage was, “If you wanta brother in battle, buy a Nubian; if you wouldbe rich, an Abyssinian; if you require an ass, anegro.”

I sometimes called upon the learned and religious,but not willingly—​these shaykhash, or reverend men,had proposed detaining me until duly convertedand favoured with a “call.” Harar, like most Africancities, was a prison on a large scale. “You enter itby your own will; you leave it by another’s,” isthe pithy saw.

At length, when really anxious to depart, andwhen my two Somali had consulted their rosariesfor the thousandth time, I called upon the GeradMohammed, who had always been civil to us. Hewas suffering from a chronic bronchitis. Here, then,lay my chance of escaping from my rat-trap. Thesmoke of some brown paper matches steeped insaltpetre relieved him. We at once made a bargain.The minister was to take me before the Amir andsecure for me a ceremonious dismission. On theother part, I bound myself to send up from thecoast a lifelong supply of the precious medicine.We both kept faith. Moreover, after returning toAden I persuaded the authorities to reward withhandsome presents the men who held my life intheir hands and yet did not take it.

After a pleasing interview with the Amir, who didhis best to smile, we left Harar on January 13th,1855. At Sagharah, where the villagers had prayedthe death-prayer as we set out for the city, we werereceived with effusion. They now scattered overus handfuls of toasted grain, and they danced withdelight, absorbing copious draughts of liquor. The“End of Time” wept crocodile’s tears, and thewomen were grateful that their charms had notbeen exposed to the terrible smallpox.

After a week’s rest we prepared to make the coast.I was desirous of striking Berbera, a port south ofZayla, where my friends awaited me. The escortconsented to accompany me by the short direct road,on condition of travelling night and day. Theywarned me that they had a blood feud with all thetribes on the path, that we should find very littlewater and no provisions, and that the heat wouldbe frightful. Truly, a pleasant prospect for a wearyman!

But if they could stand it, so could I. The weakerattendants, the women, and the camels were sent backby the old path, and I found myself en route onJanuary 26th, accompanied by my two Somali andby a wild guide known as Dubayr—​the “Donkey.”My provaunt for five days consisted of five biscuits,a few limes, and sundry lumps of sugar.

I will not deny that the ride was trying work.The sun was fearful, the nights were raw and damp.For twenty-four hours we did not taste water; ourbrains felt baked, our throats burned, the miragemocked us at every turn, and the effect was a kindof monomania. At length a small bird showed us awell and prevented, I believe, our going mad. Thescenery was uniform and uninteresting—​horrid hillsupon which withered aloes raised their spears; plainsapparently rained upon by showers of fire and stones,and rolling ground rich only in “wait a bit” thorns,made to rend man’s skin and garment. We scrupulouslyavoided the kraals, and when on one occasionthe wild people barred the way we were so intolerablyfierce with hunger and thirst that they fled from usas though we were fiends. The immortal TenThousand certainly did not sight the cold waters ofthe Euxine with more delight than we felt whenhailing the warm bay of Berbera. I ended thattoilsome ride to and from Harar of two hundredand forty miles at 2 a.m. on January 30th, 1855,after a last spell of forty miles. A glad welcomefrom my brother expeditionists soon made amendsfor past privations and fatigues.

*  *  *  *  *

And now to recount the most unpleasant part ofmy first adventure in East Africa.

Having paid a visit to Aden, I returned to Berberain April, 1855, prepared to march upon the headwaters of the Nile.

But Fate and the British authorities were againstme. I had done too much—​I had dared to makeBerbera a rival port. They were not scrupulous atAden, even to the taking of life.

My little party consisted of forty-two muskets,including three officers and myself. The men, however,were not to be trusted, but after repeatedapplications I could not obtain an escort of Somalipolicemen. Matters looked ugly, and the more soas there was no retreat.

The fair of Berbera, which had opened in earlyOctober, was breaking up, and the wild clansmenwere retiring from the seaboard to their native hills.The harbour rapidly emptied; happily, however, forus, a single boat remained there.

We slept comfortably on April 18th, agreeing tohave a final shot at the gazelles before marching.Between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m. we were roused by arush of men like a roar of a stormy wind. I learnedafterwards that our enemies numbered between threeand four hundred. We armed ourselves with allspeed, whilst our party, after firing a single volley,ran away as quickly as possible.

The unfortunate Lieutenant Stroyan was run throughwith a spear; he slept far from us, and we did notsee him fall. Lieutenants Herne and Speke and Idefended ourselves in our tent till the savages proceededto beat it down. I then gave the word to sally,and cleared the way with my sabre. Lieutenant Herneaccompanied me and—​wonderful to relate—​escapedwithout injury. Lieutenant Speke was seized andtied up; he had eleven spear-thrusts before he couldfree himself, and he escaped by a miracle. When outsidethe camp, I vainly tried once more to bring upour men to the fray. Finding me badly hurt theycarried me on board the boat. Here I was joined bythe survivors, who carried with them the corpse ofour ill-fated friend.

Sad and dispirited, we returned to Aden. We hadlost our property as well as our blood, and I knew toowell that we should be rewarded with nothing butblame. The authorities held a Court of Inquiry inmy absence, and facetiously found that we and not theywere in fault. Lord Dalhousie, the admirable statesmanthen governing in general British India, declaredthat they were quite right. I have sometimes thoughtthey were.

TO THE HEART OF AFRICA
1856-1859

I

THE JOURNEY

I  HAD long wished to “unveil Isis”—​in other words,to discover the sources of the Nile and the Lakeregions of Central Africa—​and to this end I left Londonin September, 1856, for Bombay. Here I applied forCaptain Speke to accompany me as second in command,as he wished much to go. My subsequent disputewith Speke is well known, and I will not refer to ithere. I took him with me out of pure good nature,for, as he had suffered with me in purse and personat Berbera the year before, I thought it only just tooffer him the opportunity of renewing an attempt topenetrate to the unknown regions of Central Africa.I had no other reasons. He was not a linguist, nora man of science, nor an astronomical observer, andduring the expedition he acted in a subordinate capacityonly. The Court of Directors refused him leave, butI obtained it from the local authorities in Bombay. Imay here add that the Royal Geographical Society hadgiven me a grant of £1,000, and that the Court ofDirectors of the East India Company had given metwo years’ leave.

I landed at Zanzibar from Bombay on December 19th,1856, and received much kindness from Lieutenant-ColonelHamerton, Her Majesty’s Consul. First ofall I made an experimental trip, and this and the studyof Zanzibar occupied my time until May 14th, 1857,when I left Zanzibar for the second time, and on the27th of the same month I landed at Wale Point, onthe east coast of Africa, about eighty-four miles fromthe town of Bagamoyo.

I wanted to engage one hundred and seventy porters,but could only get thirty-six, and thirty animals werefound, which were all dead in six months, so I hadto leave a part of my things behind, including a greaterpart of my ammunition and my iron boat. I paidvarious visits to the hippopotamus haunts, and had myboat uplifted from the water upon the points of twotusks, which made corresponding holes in the bottom.My escort were under the impression that nothingless than one hundred and fifty guns and several cannonwould enable them to fight a way through the perilsof the interior. I was warned that I must pass throughsavages who shot with poisoned arrows, that I mustavoid trees—​which was not easy in a land of forest—​thatthe Wazaramo had forbidden white men to entertheir country, that one rhinoceros had killed twohundred men, that armies of elephants would attackmy camp by night, and that the hyena was moredangerous than the Bengal tiger—​altogether, nota cheerful outlook.

Most of these difficulties were raised by a rascalnamed Ramji, who had his own ends in view. Beinga Hindoo, he thought I was ignorant of Cutchee; soone day I overheard the following conversation betweenhim and a native.

“Will he ever reach it?” asked the native, meaningthe Sea of Ujiji; to which Ramji replied:

“Of course not; what is he that he should passthrough Ugogo?” (a province about half way).

So I remarked at once that I did intend to passUgogo and also reach the Sea of Ujiji, that I didknow Cutchee, and that if he was up to any tricks,I should be equal to him.

On June 26th, 1857, I set out in earnest on ajourney into the far interior.

On this journey I had several queer experiences.At Nzasa I was visited by three native chiefs, whocame to ascertain whether I was bound on a peacefulerrand. When I assured them of my unwarlikeintentions, they told me I must halt on the morrowand send forth a message to the next chief, but asthis plan invariably loses three days, I replied thatI could not be bound by their rules, but was readyto pay for their infraction. During the debate uponthis fascinating proposal for breaking the law, oneof the most turbulent of the Baloch, who were nativeservants in my train, drew his sword upon an oldwoman because she refused to give up a basket ofgrain. She rushed, with the face of a black Medusa,into the assembly, and created a great disturbance.When that was allayed, the principal chief asked mewhat brought the white man into their country, andat the same time to predict the loss of their gainsand commerce, land and liberty.

“I am old,” he quoth pathetically, “and mybeard is grey, yet I never beheld such a calamity asthis.”

“These men,” replied my interpreter, “neither buynor sell; they do not inquire into price, nor dothey covet profit.”

An extravagant present—​for at that time Iwas ignorant of the price I ought to pay—​openedthe chiefs’ hearts, and they appointed one of theirbody to accompany me as far as the western halfof the Kingani valley. They also caused to beperformed a dance of ceremony in my honour. Aline of small, plump, chestnut-coloured women, withwild, beady eyes and thatch of clay-plastered hair,dressed in their loin-cloths, with a profusion of beadnecklaces and other ornaments, and with their amplebosoms tightly corded down, advanced and retiredin a convulsion of wriggle and contortion, whose fitexpression was a long discordant howl. I threwthem a few strings of green beads, and one of thesefalling to the ground, I was stooping to pick it upwhen Said, my interpreter whispered, in my ear,“Bend not; they will say ‘He will not bend evento take up beads.’”

In some places I found the attentions of the fairsex somewhat embarrassing, but when I entered thefine green fields that guarded the settlements ofMuhoewee, I was met en masse by the ladies of thevillages, who came out to stare, laugh, and wonderat the white man.

“What would you think of these whites ashusbands?” asked one of the crowd.

“With such things on their legs, not by anymeans!” was the unanimous reply, accompanied bypeals of merriment.

On July 8th I fell into what my Arab called the“Valley of Death and the Home of Hunger,” amalarious level plain. Speke, whom I shall henceforthcall my companion, was compelled by sickness to ride.The path, descending into a dense thicket of speargrass, bush, and thorny trees based on sand, wasrough and uneven, but when I arrived at a raggedcamping kraal, I found the water bad, and a smellof decay was emitted by the dark, dank ground. It wasa most appalling day, and one I shall not lightly forget.From the black clouds driven before furious blastspattered raindrops like musket bullets, splashing thealready saturated ground. Tall, stiff trees groanedand bent before the gusts; birds screamed as theywere driven from their resting-places; the asses stoodwith heads depressed, ears hung down, and shrinkingtails turned to the wind; even the beasts of the wildseemed to have taken refuge in their dens.

Despite our increasing weakness, we marched onthe following day, when we were interrupted by abody of about fifty Wazaramo, who called to us tohalt. We bought them off with a small present ofcloth and beads, and they stood aside to let us pass.I could not but admire the athletic and statuesquefigures of the young warriors, and their martialattitudes, grasping in one hand their full-sized bows,and in the other sheaths of grinded arrows, whoseblack barbs and necks showed a fresh layer ofpoison.

Though handicapped by a very inadequate force, ineighteen days we accomplished, despite sickness andevery manner of difficulty, a march of one hundredand eighteen miles, and entered K’hutu, the saferendezvous of foreign merchants, on July 14th.I found consolation in the thought that the expeditionhad passed without accident through themost dangerous part of the journey.

Resuming our march through the maritime region,on July 15th we penetrated into a thick and tangledjungle, with luxuriant and putrescent vegetation.Presently, however, the dense thicket opened out intoa fine park country, peculiarly rich in game, wherethe giant trees of the seaboard gave way to mimosas,gums, and stunted thorns. Large gnus prancedabout, pawing the ground and shaking their formidablemanes; hartebeest and other antelopesclustered together on the plain. The homely cryof the partridge resounded from the brake, and theguinea-fowls looked like large bluebells upon thetrees. Small land-crabs took refuge in pits and holes,which made the path a cause of frequent accidents,whilst ants of various kinds, crossing the road inclose columns, attacked man and beast ferociously,causing the caravan to break into a halting, trottinghobble. The weather was a succession of raw mists,rain in torrents, and fiery sunbursts; the landappeared rotten, and the jungle smelt of death.At Kiruru I found a cottage and enjoyed for thefirst time an atmosphere of sweet, warm smoke. Mycompanion would remain in the reeking, miry tent,where he partially laid the foundations of the feverwhich afterwards threatened his life in the mountainsof Usagara.

Despite the dangers of hyenas, leopards, andcrocodiles, we were delayed by the torrents of rainin the depths of the mud at Kiruru. We thenresumed our march under most unpromising conditions.Thick grass and the humid vegetationrendered the black earth greasy and slippery, and theroad became worse as we advanced. In three placeswe crossed bogs from a hundred yards to a mile inlength, and admitting a man up to the knee. Theporters plunged through them like laden animals,and I was obliged to be held upon the ass. At lastwe reached Dut’humi, where we were detained nearlya week, for malaria had brought on attacks of marshfever, which, in my case, thoroughly prostrated me.I had during the fever fit, and often for hours afterwards,a queer conviction of divided identity, neverceasing to be two persons that generally thwarted andopposed each other. The sleepless nights broughtwith them horrid visions, animals of grisliest form,and hag-like women and men.

Dut’humi is one of the most fertile districts inK’hutu, and, despite its bad name as regards climate,Arabs sometimes reside here for some months for thepurpose of purchasing slaves cheaply, and to repairtheir broken fortunes for a fresh trip into the interior.This kept up a perpetual feud amongst the chiefs ofthe country, and scarcely a month passed withoutfields being laid waste, villages burnt down, and theunhappy cultivators being carried off to be sold.

On July 24th, feeling strong enough to advance, wepassed out of the cultivation of Dut’humi. Beyondthe cultivation the road plunged into a jungle, wherethe European traveller realised every preconceived ideaof Africa’s aspect at once hideous and grotesque.The general appearance is a mingling of bush andforest, most monotonous to the eye. The black, greasyground, veiled with thick shrubbery, supports in themore open spaces screens of tiger and spear grasstwelve and thirteen feet high, with every blade afinger’s breadth; and the towering trees are oftenclothed with huge creepers, forming heavy columnsof densest verdure. The earth, ever rain-drenched,emits the odour of sulphuretted hydrogen, and insome parts the traveller might fancy a corpse tobe hidden behind every bush. That no feature ofmiasma might be wanting to complete the picture,filthy heaps of the meanest hovels sheltered theirmiserable inhabitants, whose frames are lean withconstant intoxication, and whose limbs are distortedwith ulcerous sores. Such a revolting scene isEast Africa from Central K’hutu to the base of theUsagara Mountains.

After a long, long tramp the next day through riceswamps, we came to the nearest outposts of theZungomero district. Here were several caravans,with pitched tents, piles of ivory, and crowds ofporters. The march had occupied us over fourweeks, about double the usual time, and a gang ofthirty-six Wanyamwezi native porters whom I hadsent on in advance to Zungomero naturally began tosuspect accident.

Zungomero was not a pleasant place, and thoughthe sea breeze was here strong, beyond its influencethe atmosphere was sultry and oppressive. It was thegreat centre of traffic in the eastern regions. Lyingupon the main trunk road, it must be traversed bythe up and down caravans, and during the travellingseason, between June and April, large bodies of somethousand men pass through it every week. It was,therefore, a very important station, and the dailyexpenditure of large caravans being considerable, therewas a good deal of buying and selling.

The same attractions which draw caravans toZungomero render it the great rendezvous of anarmy of touts, who, whilst watching the arrival ofivory traders, amuse themselves with plundering thecountry.

Zungomero is the end of the maritime region, andwhen I had reached it, I considered that the firststage of my journey was accomplished.

I had to remain at Zungomero about a fortnightto await the coming of my porters. In this hot-bedof pestilence we nearly found “wet graves.” Ouronly lodging was under the closed eaves of a hut,built African fashion, one abode within the other;the roof was a sieve, the walls were a system ofchinks, and the floor was a sheet of mud. Outsidethe rain poured pertinaciously, the winds were rawand chilling, and the gigantic vegetation was soppedto decay, and the river added its quotum of miasma.The hardships of the march had upset our Balochguard, and they became almost mutinous, and woulddo nothing for themselves. They stole the poultryof the villagers, quarrelled violently with the slaves,and foully abused their temporal superior, Said binSalim.

When we were ready to start from Zungomero,our whole party amounted to a total of one hundredand thirty-two souls, whom I need not, I think,describe in detail. We had plenty of cloth andbeads for traffic with the natives, a good store ofprovisions, arms, and ammunition, a certain amountof camp furniture, instruments, such as chronometers,compasses, thermometers, etc., a stock of stationery,plenty of useful tools, clothing, bedding, and shoes,books and drawing materials, a portable domesticmedicine chest, and a number of miscellaneous articles.As life at Zungomero was the acme of discomfort,I was glad enough to leave it.

On August 7th, 1857, our expedition left Zungomeroto cross the East African ghauts in rathera pitiful plight. We were martyred by miasma;my companion and I were so feeble that we couldhardly sit our asses, and we could scarcely hear. Itwas a day of severe toil, and we loaded with greatdifficulty.

From Central Zungomero to the nearest ascentof the Usagara Mountains is a march of five hours;and, after a painful and troublesome journey, wearrived at the frontier of the first gradient of theUsagara Mountains. Here we found a tattered kraal,erected by the last passing caravan, and, spent withfatigue, we threw ourselves on the short grass torest. We were now about three hundred feet abovethe plain level, and there was a wondrous changeof climate. Strength and health returned as if bymagic; the pure sweet mountain air, alternatelysoft and balmy, put new life into us. Our gipsyencampment was surrounded by trees, from whichdepended graceful creepers, and wood-apples large asmelons. Monkeys played at hide-and-seek, chatteringbehind the bolls, as the iguana, with its paintedscale-armour, issued forth; white-breasted ravenscawed, doves cooed on well-clothed boughs, and thefield cricket chirped in the shady bush. By nightthe view disclosed a peaceful scene, the moonbeamslying like sheets of snow upon the ruddy highlands,and the stars shone like glow-lamps in the domeabove. I never wearied of contemplating the scene,and contrasting it with the Slough of Despond,unhappy Zungomero. We stayed here two days,and then resumed our upward march.

All along our way we were saddened by the sightof clean-picked skeletons and here and there theswollen corpses of porters who had perished by thewayside. A single large body passed us one day,having lost fifty of their number by smallpox, andthe sight of their deceased comrades made a terribleimpression. Men staggered on, blinded by disease;mothers carried infants as loathsome as themselves.He who once fell never rose again. No villagewould admit a corpse into its precincts, and theyhad to lie there until their agony was ended by thevulture, the raven, and the hyena. Several of myparty caught the infection, and must have thrownthemselves into the jungle, for when they weremissed they could not be found. The farther wewent on, the more we found the corpses; it was aregular way of death. Our Moslems passed themwith averted faces, and with the low “La haul”of disgust.

When we arrived at Rufutah, I found that nearlyall our instruments had been spoilt or broken; andone discomfort followed another until we arrived atZonhwe, which was the turning-point of our expedition’sdifficulties.

As we went on, the path fell easily westwardsthrough a long, grassy incline, cut by several water-courses.At noon I lay down fainting in the sandybed of the Muhama, and, keeping two natives withme, I begged my companion to go on, and sendme back a hammock from the halting-place. Mymen, who before had become mutinous and deserting,when they saw my extremity came out well;even the deserters reappeared, and they led me toa place where stagnant water was found, and saidthey were sorry. At two o’clock, as my companiondid not send a hammock, I remounted, and passedthrough several little villages. I found my caravanhalted on a hillside, where they had been attackedby a swarm of wild bees.

Our march presented curious contrasts of thisstrange African nature, which is ever in extremes.At one time a splendid view would charm me;above, a sky of purest azure, flecked with fleecyclouds. The plain was as a park in autumn, burnttawny by the sun. A party was at work merrily,as if preparing for an English harvest home.Calabashes and clumps of evergreen trees werescattered over the scene, each stretching its lordlyarms aloft. The dove, the peewit, and the guinea-fowlfluttered about. The most graceful of animals,the zebra and the antelope, browsed in the distance.Then suddenly the fair scene would vanish as ifby enchantment. We suddenly turned into a tangledmass of tall, fœtid reeds, rank jungle, and forest.After the fiery sun and dry atmosphere of theplains, the sudden effect of the damp and clammychill was overpowering. In such places one feelsas if poisoned by miasma; a shudder runs throughthe frame, and cold perspiration breaks over thebrow.

So things went on until September 4th, whichstill found us on the march. We had reached thebasin of Inenge, which lies at the foot of the WindyPass, the third and westernmost range of the UsagaraMountains. The climate is ever in extremes; duringthe day a furnace, and at night a refrigerator. Herewe halted. The villagers of the settlements overlookingthe ravine flocked down to barter theiranimals and grain.

The halt was celebrated by abundant drummingand droning, which lasted half the night; it servedto raise the spirits of the men, who had talked ofnothing the whole day but the danger of beingattacked by the Wahumba, a savage tribe. Thenext morning there arrived a caravan of about fourhundred porters, marching to the coast under thecommand of some Arab merchants. We interchangedcivilities, and I was allured into buying a few yardsof rope and other things, and also some asses. Oneof my men had also increased his suite, unknownto me at first, by the addition of Zawada—​the“Nice Gift.” She was a woman of about thirty,with black skin shining like a patent leather boot, abulging brow, little red eyes, a wide mouth, whichdisplayed a few long, scattered teeth, and a figureconsiderably too bulky for her thin legs. She wasa patient and hardworking woman, and respectableenough in the acceptation of the term. She wasat once married off to old Musangesi, one of thedonkey-men, whose nose and chin made him acaricature of our old friend Punch. After detectingher in a lengthy walk, perhaps not a solitary one,he was guilty of such cruelty to her that I feltcompelled to decree a dissolution of the marriage,and she returned safely to Zanzibar. At Inengeanother female slave was added to our troop inthe person of Sikujui—​“Don’t Know”—​a herculeanperson with a virago manner. The channel of herupper lip had been pierced to admit a bone, whichgave her the appearance of having a duck’s bill.“Don’t Know’s” morals were frightful. She wasduly espoused, in the forlorn hope of making her arespectable woman, to Goha, the sturdiest of theWak’hutu porters; after a week she treated himwith sublime contempt. She gave him first one andthen a dozen rivals, and she disordered the wholecaravan with her irregularities, in addition to breakingevery article entrusted to her charge, and at lastdeserted shamelessly, so that her husband finally disposedof her to a travelling trader in exchange fora few measures of rice. Her ultimate fate I do notknow, but the trader came next morning to complainof a broken head.

After Inenge we were in for a bad part of thejourney, and great labour. Trembling with ague,with swimming heads, ears deafened by weakness, andlimbs that would hardly support us, we contemplatedwith horrid despair the apparently perpendicular pathup which we and our starving asses were aboutto toil.

On September 10th we hardened our hearts andbegan to breast the Pass Terrible. After roundingin two places wall-like sheets of rock and crossing abushy slope, we faced a long steep of loose white soiland rolling stones, up which we could see the portersswarming more like baboons than human beings, andthe asses falling every few yards. As we movedslowly and painfully forward, compelled to lie downby cough, thirst, and fatigue, the sayhah, or war-cry,rang loud from hill to hill, and Indian files ofarchers and spearmen streamed like lines of blackants in all directions down the paths. The predatoryWahumba, awaiting the caravan’s departure,had seized the opportunity of driving the cattle andplundering the village of Inenge.

By resting every few yards, we reached, after aboutsix hours, the summit of the Pass Terrible, and herewe sat down amongst aromatic flowers and prettyshrubs to recover strength and breath.

On September 14th, our health much improvedby the weather, we left the hilltop and began todescend the counterslope of the Usagara Mountains.For the first time since many days I had strengthenough to muster the porters and inspect their loads.The outfit which had been expected to last a year hadbeen half exhausted within three months. I summonedSaid bin Salim, and told him my anxiety. Like averitable Arab, he declared we had enough to last untilwe reached Unyamyembe, where we should certainlybe joined by reinforcements of porters.

“How do you know?” I inquired.

“Allah is all-knowing,” said Said. “The caravanwill come.”

As the fatalism was infectious, I ceased to thinkupon the subject.

The next day we sighted the plateau of Ugogo andits eastern desert. The spectacle was truly impressive.The first aspect was stern and wild—​the rough nurseof rugged men. We went on the descent from dayto day until September 18th, when a final march offour hours placed us on the plains of Ugogo. Beforenoon I sighted from a sharp turn in the bed of a riverour tent pitched under a huge sycamore, on a levelstep. It was a pretty spot in the barren scene, grassy,and grown with green mimosas, and here we haltedfor a while. The second stage of our journey wasaccomplished.

After three days’ sojourn at Ugogo to recruit theparty and lay in rations for four long desert marches,we set forth on our long march through the provinceof Ugogo. Our first day’s journey was over a grassycountry, and we accomplished it in comparative comfort.The next day we toiled through the sunshineof the hot waste, crossing plains over paths where theslides of elephants’ feet upon the last year’s muddyclay showed that the land was not always dry. Duringthis journey we suffered many discomforts and difficulties.The orb of day glowed like a fireball in ourfaces; then our path would take us through dense,thorny jungle, and over plains of black, cracked earth.Our caravan once rested in a thorny copse based uponrich red and yellow clay; once it was hurriedlydislodged by a swarm of wild bees, and the nextmorning I learnt that we had sustained a loss—​oneof our porters had deserted, and to his care had beencommitted one of the most valuable of our packages,a portmanteau containing “The Nautical Almanac,”surveying books, and most of our papers, pen, and ink.

At last we arrived at Ziwa, a place where caravansgenerally encamped, because they found water there.At Ziwa we had many troubles. One Marema, theSultan of a new settlement, visited us on the day ofour arrival, and reproved us for sitting in the jungle,pointing the way to his village. On my replying wewere going to traverse Ugogo by another road, hedemanded his customs, which we refused, as they werea form of blackmail. The Sultan threatened violence,whereupon the asses were brought in from grazingand ostentatiously loaded before his eyes. He thenchanged his tone from threats to beggary. I gavehim two cloths and a few strings of beads, preferringthis to the chance of a flight of arrows during thenight.

When we resumed our journey, the heat was awful.The sun burnt like the breath of a bonfire, warmsiroccos raised clouds of dust, and in front of us thehorizon was so distant that, as the Arabs expressedthemselves, a man might be seen three marches off.

October 5th saw us in the centre of Kanyenye,a clearing in the jungle of about ten miles in diameter.The surface was of a red clayey soil dotted withsmall villages, huge calabashes, and stunted mimosas.Here I was delayed four days to settle blackmail withMagomba, the most powerful of the Wagogo chiefs.He was of a most avaricious nature. First of all Iacknowledged his compliments with two cottons.On arrival at his headquarters, I was waited on byan oily Cabinet of Elders, who would not departwithout their “respects”—​four cottons. The nextdemand was made by his favourite, a hideous oldPrincess with more wrinkles than hair, with no hairblack and no tooth white; she was not put rightwithout a fee of six cottons. At last, accompaniedby a mob of courtiers, appeared the chief in magnifico.He was the only chief who ever entered my tent inUgogo—​pride and a propensity for strong drinkprevented such visits. He was much too great aman to call upon Arab merchants, but in our casecuriosity mastered State considerations. Magombawas an old man, black and wrinkled, drivelling anddecrepid. He wore a coating of castor-oil and a loin-clothwhich grease and use had changed from blueto black. He chewed his quid, and expectoratedwithout mercy; he asked many questions, and wasall eyes to the main chance. He demanded, andreceived, five cloths, one coil of brass wire, and fourblue cottons. In return he made me a present ofthe leanest of calves, and when it was driven intocamp with much parade, his son, to crown all, putin a claim for three cottons. Yet Magomba, beforeour departure, boasted of his generosity—​and indeedhe was generous, for everything we had was in hishands, and we were truly in his power. It was, indeed,my firm conviction from first to last in this expeditionthat in case of attack or surprise by natives I hadnot a soul except my companion to stand by me,and all those who accompanied us would have eitherbetrayed us or fled. We literally, therefore, carriedour lives in our hands.

We toiled on and on, suffering severely from theheat by day and sometimes the cold by night, andtroubled much with mutinous porters and fears ofdesertion, until at last we reached the heart of thegreat desert, or elephant ground, known as FieryField. On October 20th we began the transit of thisFiery Field. The waste here appeared in its mosthorrid phase; a narrow goat-path serpentined in andout of a growth of poisonous thorny jungle, withthin, hard grass straw growing on a glaring whiteand rolling ground. The march was a severe trial,and we lost on it three boxes of ammunition. By-and-bywe passed over the rolling ground, and plungedinto a thorny jungle, which seemed interminable, butwhich gradually thinned out into a forest of thornsand gums, bush and underwood, which afforded abroad path and pleasanter travelling. Unfortunately,it did not last long, and we again had a very roughbit of ground to go over. Another forest to passthrough, and then we came out on October 27thinto a clearing studded with large stockaded villages,fields of maize and millet, gourds and watermelons,and showing numerous flocks and herds. We hadarrived at Unyamwezi, and our traverse of Ugogowas over.

The people swarmed from their abodes, young andold hustling one another for a better stare; the manforsook his loom and the girl her hoe, and we werewelcomed and escorted into the village by a tail ofscreaming boys and shouting adults, the males almostnude, the women bare to the waist, and clothed onlyknee-deep in kilts. Leading the way, our guide,according to the immemorial custom of Unyamwezi,entered uninvited and sans cérémonie the nearestvillage; the long string of porters flocked in with bagand baggage, and we followed their example. Wewere placed under a wall-less roof, bounded on oneside by the bars of the village palisade, and surroundedby a mob of starers, who relieved one another frommorning to night, which made me feel like a wildbeast in a menagerie.

We rested some days at Unyamwezi—​the far-famed“Land of the Moon”—​but I was urged to advanceon the ground that the natives were a dangerous race,though they appeared to be a timid and ignoblepeople, dripping with castor and sesamum oil, andscantily attired in shreds of cotton or greasy goat-skins.The dangers of the road between Unyamwezi andUjiji were declared to be great. I found afterwardsthat they were grossly exaggerated, but I set forthwith the impression that this last stage of my journeywould be the worst of all. The country over whichwe travelled varied very much from day to day, beingsometimes opened and streaked with a thin forest ofmimosas, and at other times leading us through junglypatches. Going through a thick forest, one of theporters, having imprudently lagged behind, was clubbedand cruelly bruised by three black robbers, who relievedhim of his load. These highwaymen were not unusualin this part, and their raids formed one of the manydangers we had to guard against.

On November 7th, 1857, the one hundred andthirty-fourth day from the date of leaving the coast,we entered Kazeh, the principal village of Unyamwezi,much frequented by Arab merchants. I always goton well with the Arabs, and they gave me a mostfavourable reception. Striking indeed was the contrastbetween the open-handed hospitality and heartygoodwill of this truly noble race and the nigg*rdlinessof the savage and selfish Africans. Whatever Ialluded to—​onions, plantains, limes, vegetables, tamarinds,coffee, and other things, only to be foundamongst the Arabs—​were sent at once, and the veryname of payment would have been an insult.

Kazeh is situated in Unyamyembe, the principalprovince of Unyamwezi, and is a great meeting-placeof merchants and point of departure for caravans,which then radiate into the interior of CentralIntertropical Africa. Here the Arab merchant fromZanzibar meets his compatriot returning from theTanganyika and Uruwwa. Many of the Arabs settlehere for years, and live comfortably, and evensplendidly. Their houses, though single storied, arelarge, substantial, and capable of defence; theirgardens are extensive and well planted. They receiveregular supplies of merchandise, comforts, and luxuriesfrom the coast; they are surrounded by troops ofconcubines and slaves; rich men have riding assesfrom Zanzibar, and even the poorest keep flocksand herds.

I was detained at Kazeh from November 8th untilDecember 14th, and the delay was one long trialof patience.

It is customary for stranger caravans proceedingtowards Ujiji to remain six weeks or two monthsat Unyamyembe for repose and recovery from thelabours which they have endured; moreover, theyare expected to enjoy the pleasures of civilisedsociety, and to accept the hospitality offered themby the resident Arabs. In Eastern Africa, I maymention, six weeks was the same as the three days’visit in England.

The morning after our arrival at Kazeh a greatnumber of our porters left us, and the rest of ourparty apparently considered that Unyamyembe, andnot Ujiji, was the end of the exploration. Severalof them were mutinous when I told them theywould not be rewarded for safe-conduct until wehad reached the end of the up march, which was nothere; and these difficulties took a long time to settle.Kazeh, indeed, proved in effect a second point ofdeparture, easier only because I had now gainedsome experience. Another cause of delay was thesickness of many of our people, and it took sometime for them to shake off the ague which they hadcontracted. Indeed, the wing of Azrael seemedwaving over my own head. Nevertheless, on themorning of December 15th I started off afresh,charmed with the prospect of a fine open country,and delighted to get away from what had been tome a veritable imprisonment.

I will not describe the details of our march, whichwent on without a break. Christmas Day found usstill marching, and so on day after day, if I exceptan enforced halt of twelve days at Msene. OnJanuary 10th, 1858, I left Msene, with considerabledifficulty through the mutiny of porters; and so wepressed on, more or less with difficulty, until at lasta formidable obstacle to progress presented itself.I had been suffering for some days; the miasmaticairs of Sorora had sown the seeds of a fresh illness.On the afternoon of January 18th, 1858, I was seizedwith an attack of fever, and then paralysis set infrom the feet upwards, and I was completely horsde combat. There seemed nothing left for me butto lie down and die. One of my chief portersdeclared that the case was beyond his skill: it wasone of partial paralysis, brought on by malaria, andhe called in an Arab, who looked at me also. TheArab was more cheerful, and successfully predictedthat I should be able to move in ten days. Onthe tenth I again mounted my ass, but the paralysiswore off very slowly, and prevented me from walkingany distance for nearly a year. The sensationof numbness in my hands and feet disappeared evenmore slowly than that. I had, however, undertakenthe journey in a “nothing like leather” frame ofmind, and was determined to press on. So we pressed.

We had now left the “Land of the Moon” behindus, and entered upon a new district. The roadbefore us lay through a howling wilderness, andthe march lay along the right bank of a malarialriver, and the mosquitoes feasted right royally uponour bodies, even in the daytime. A good deal ofthe ground was very swampy, and it then stretchedover jungly and wooded hill-spires, with steepascents and descents. Everywhere was thick, fœtid,and putrescent vegetation. The heaviness of thismarch caused two of our porters to levant andanother four to strike work. It was, therefore, necessaryfor me to again mount ass ten days afteran attack of paralysis. So we dragged on for thenext week, throughout the early days of February,a weary toil of fighting through tiger and speargrass, over broken and slippery paths, and throughthick jungle. But these difficulties were lightlyborne, for we felt that we must be nearing the endof our journey.

On February 13th we resumed our travel throughscreens of lofty grass, which thinned out into astraggling forest. After about an hour’s march, aswe entered a small savannah, I saw our Arab leaderrunning forward and changing the direction of thecaravan. Presently he breasted a steep and stonyhill, sparsely clad with thorny trees. Arrived at thesummit with toil, for our fa*gged beasts now refusedto proceed, we halted for a few minutes and gazed.

“What is that streak of light which lies below?”I inquired of Seedy Bombay, one of our porters.

“I am of opinion,” quoth Seedy, “that is thewater.”

I gazed in dismay. The remains of my blindness,the veil of trees, and broad ray of sunshine illuminatingbut one reach of the lake, had shrunk itsfair proportions. Prematurely I began to curse myfolly in having risked life and health for so poora prize, and even thought of proposing an immediatereturn with a view of exploring the Nyanza, orNorthern Lake. Advancing, however, a few yards,the whole scene suddenly burst upon my view, fillingme with wonder, admiration, and delight. Mylonging eyes beheld the Tanganyika Lake as it layin the lap of the mountain, basking in the gorgeoustropical sunshine. Our journey had not been in vain.

II

THE LAKE REGIONS

I shall never forget my first glimpse of Tanganyika.Below and beyond a short foreground of ruggedand precipitous hill-fold, down which the footpathzigzagged painfully, a narrow strip of emerald greenshelved towards a ribbon of glistening yellow sand,here bordered by sedgy rushes, there cleanly cut bythe breaking wavelets. Further in front stretchedthe waters, an expanse of soft blue, in breadth varyingfrom thirty to thirty-five miles, and sprinkled bythe crisp east wind with tiny crescents of snowy foam.The background in front was a high and brokenwall of steel-coloured mountain. To the south, andopposite the long, low point, lay bluff headlands, and,as the eye dilated, it fell upon a cluster of outlyingislets, speckling a sea horizon. Villages, cultivatedlands, the frequent canoes of the fishermen on thewaters, and, as we came nearer, the murmur of thewaters breaking upon the shore, gave variety andmovement to the landscape. The riant shores ofthis vast lake appeared doubly beautiful to me afterthe silent and spectral mangrove creeks on the EastAfrican seaboard, and the melancholy, mononotousexperience I had gone through of desert and jungle,tawny rock and sunburnt plain, or rank herbageand flats of black mire. Truly it was a feast ofsoul and sight. Forgetting toils, dangers, and thedoubtfulness of return, I felt willing to endure doublewhat I had endured. I had sighted the fabled lake,and all the party seemed to join with me in joy.Even my purblind companion found nothing togrumble at except the “mist and glare before hiseyes.”

Arrived at Ukaranga I was disappointed to findthere a few miserable grass huts that clustered arounda single “tembe,” or inn, then occupied by its proprietor,an Arab trader. I found that that part of*ckaranga contained not a single native canoe, andthere seemed no possibility of getting one, the innkeeperbeing determined that I should spend beads forrations and lodgings among him and his companions,and be heavily mulcted for a boat into the bargain.The latter manœuvre was frustrated by my securinga solid-built Arab craft for the morrow, capable ofcontaining from thirty to thirty-five men. It belongedto an absent merchant, and in point of size it wassecond on Tanganyika, and, being too large forpaddling, the crew rowed, instead of scooping up thewater like the natives. I paid an exorbitant pricefor the hire of this boat.

Early in the morning of the following day, February14th, we began coasting along the eastern shore ofthe lake in a north-westerly direction, towards theKawele district, in the land of Ujiji. The view wasexceedingly beautiful, and the picturesque and variedforms of the mountains, rising above and dippinginto the lake, were clad in purplish blue, set off bythe rosy tints of the morning. As we approachedour destination, I wondered at the absence of housesand people. By the Arabs I had been taught toexpect a town, a port, and a bazaar excelling insize that of Zanzibar, instead of which I found afew scattered hovels, and our craft was poled upthrough a hole in a thick welting of coarse grassto a level landing-place of flat shingle. Such wasthe disembarkation quay of the great Ujiji.

We stepped ashore. Around the landing-placea few scattered huts represented the port-town.Advancing some hundred yards through a din ofshouts and screams, tom-toms and trumpets, whichdefies description, and mobbed by a swarm of blackbeings whose eyes seemed about to start from theirheads with surprise, I passed a relic of Arab civilisation,the bazaar. It was on a plot of higher ground, andthere, between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m., weather permitting,a mass of standing and squatting negroes buy andsell, barter and exchange, offer and chaffer, witha hubbub heard for miles. The articles exposed forsale were sometimes goats and sheep and poultry,generally fish, vegetables, and a few fruits, and palmwine was a staple commodity. Occasionally an ivory ora slave was hawked about. Such was the little villageof Kawele. The Tanganyika is ever seen to advantagefrom its shores, and here I found a lodging in aruinous tembe inn, built by an Arab merchant,where I was lodged in comparative comfort, thoughthe tembe was tenanted only by ticks and slaves.

As the tembe was to be my home for a space,my first care was to purify the floor by pastilles ofasafœtida and fumigations of gunpowder; the secondto prepare the roof for the rainy season. Improvement,however, was slow, for the natives were toolazy to work, and the porters took the earliestopportunity of deserting. I, however, managed toprovide a pair of cartels, with substitutes for chairsand tables. Benches of clay were built round therooms, but they proved useless, being found regularlyevery morning occupied in force by a swarming,struggling colony of white ants. The roof, longovergrown with tall grass, was fortified with mud;it never ceased, however, to leak like a colander, andpresently the floor was covered with deep puddles,then masses of earth dropped from the soft sides ofthe walls, and, at last, during the violent showers,half the building fell in.

On the second day of my arrival I was calledupon by Kannena, the headman of Kawele. He wasintroduced, habited in silk turban and a broadclothcoat, which I afterwards heard he had borrowed fromthe Baloch. His aspect was truly ignoble; a short,squat, and broad-backed figure, and his apology fora nose much resembled the pug with which theancients provided Silenus. On this, his first appearance,he behaved with remarkable civility, andproceeded to levy his blackmail, which was finallysettled at ten coil-bracelets and two fundi of beads.I had no salt to spare, or much valuable merchandisemight have been saved. Their return was six smallbundles of grain. Then Kannena opened trade bysending us a nominal gift, a fine ivory, weighing atleast seventy pounds, and worth, perhaps, £100.After keeping it a day or two I returned it,saying I had no dealings in ivory and slaves.This, it appears, was a mistake, as I ought, by atrifling outlay, to have supported the character of atrader. The Wajiji did not understand. “Theseare men who live by doing nothing!” they exclaimed,and they lost no time in requesting me to quittheir territory. To this I objected, and endeavouredto bribe them off. My bribes, I suppose, were notsufficient, for we at once began to see the dark sideof the native character. Thieves broke into ourout-houses, our asses were wounded by spears, andwe were accused of having bewitched and killedtheir cattle. Still, other travellers fared even worsethan we did.

At first the cold, damp climate of the lake regionsdid not agree with us; perhaps, too, the fish dietwas over-rich and fat, and the abundance of vegetablesled to little excesses. All energy seemed to haveabandoned us. I lay for a fortnight upon the earth,too blind to read and write except at long intervals,too weak to ride, and too ill to talk. My companion,Speke, who, when we arrived at the TanganyikaLake, was almost as groggy upon his legs as I was,suffered from a painful ophthalmia and a curiousdistortion of face, which made him chew sideways,like a ruminant. The Baloch complained of influenzasand catarrhs, and their tempers were as sore as theirlungs and throats.

But work remained undone, and it was necessaryto awaken from my lethargy. Being determined toexplore the northern extremity of the TanganyikaLake, whence, according to several informants, issueda large river flowing northwards, I tried to hirefrom an Arab merchant the only dhow, or sailingboat, then in existence, since the wretched canoes ofthe people were quite unfit for a long cruise. Ientrusted the mission first of all to my Arab, Saidbin Salim, but he shirked it, and I therefore directedmy companion to do his best. I got the dhow, andset about stocking it with provisions for a month’scruise. I had great difficulty in obtaining sufficientprovisions, the prices demanded were so exorbitant.After many delays I at last sent my companion away,supplied with an ample outfit, escorted by two Baloch,and attended by his men, across the Bay of Ukaranga.I was then left alone.

During my twenty-seven days of solitude the timesped quickly; it was chiefly spent in eating anddrinking, dozing and smoking. Awaking at 2 a.m.or 3 a.m., I lay anxiously expecting the grey lightcreeping through the door chinks; the glad tidings ofits approach were announced by the cawing of thecrows and the crowing of the village co*cks. Whenthe golden rays began to stream over the red earth,my torpid servant was called out, and he brought mea mass of suji, or rice-flour boiled in water, with alittle cold milk as a relish. Then entered the“slavey” of the establishment, armed with a leafybranch, to sweep the floor and slay the huge waspsthat riddled the walls of the tenement. This done,he lit the fire, as the excessive damp renderedthis precaution necessary. Then ensued visits ofceremony from Said bin Salim and another, whosat, stared, and seeing that I was not yet dead,showed disappointment in their faces and walkedaway. So the morning wore on. My servant wasemployed with tailoring, gun-cleaning, and similarlight work, over which he grumbled perpetually,whilst I settled down to diaries and vocabularies,a process interrupted by sundry pipes. We hadtwo hours’ sleep at noon, and I may say that mostof the day I lay like a log upon my cot, smokingalmost uninterruptedly, dreaming of things past andvisioning things present, and sometimes indulgingmyself in a few lines of reading and writing.

Dinner was an alternation of fish and fowl, butchers’meat being extremely rare at Ujiji. At evening Iused to make an attempt to sit under the broad eavesof the tembe and enjoy the delicious spectacle ofthis virgin nature. I was still very weak.

At 7 p.m., as the last flush faded from the occident,the lamp, a wick in a pot full of palm oil, was broughtin, Said bin Salim would appear, and a brief conversationled to the hour of sleep. A dreary, dismalday, yet it had its enjoyments.

On March 29th the rattling of the matchlocksannounced my companion’s return. I never saw aman so thoroughly moist and mildewed; he justifiedeven the French phrase, “Wet to the bone.”His paraphernalia were in a similar state; his gunswere grained with rust, and his fireproof powdermagazine had admitted the monsoon rain. I wassorely disappointed; he had done literally nothing.I cannot explain where the mismanagement lay, butthe result was that he had come back to me withoutboat or provisions to report ill-success.

It now became apparent that the rainy season wasdrawing to a close, and the time for navigation wasbeginning. After some preliminaries with Said binSalim, Kannena, who had been preparing for a cruisenorthward, was summoned before me. He agreedto convey me; but when I asked him the conditionson which he would show me the mtoni, or river,he jumped up, discharged a volley of oaths, andsprang from the house like a baboon. I was resolved,however, at all costs, even if we were reduced toactual want, to visit this mysterious stream. I madeother overtures to Kannena, made him many promises,and threw over his shoulders a six-feet length ofscarlet broadcloth, which made him tremble with joy.I ultimately secured two large canoes and fifty-five men.

On April 12th my canoe, bearing for the firsttime the British flag, stood out of Bangwe Bay, and,followed by my companion in another canoe, wemade for the cloudy and storm-vexed north. Therewere great rejoicings at our arrival at Uvira, thenorthernmost station to which merchants had at thattime been admitted. Opposite still, rose in a high,broken line the mountains of the inhospitable Urundi,apparently prolonged beyond the northern extremityof the waters. The breadth of the Tanganyika hereis between seven and eight miles. Now my hopeswere dashed to the ground; the stalwart sons ofthe chief Maruta visited me, and told me that theyhad been to the northern extremity, and that theRusizi enters into, and does not flow out of, theTanganyika. I was sick at heart. It appears thatmy companion had misunderstood, and our guidenow told us that he had never been beyond Uvira,and never intended to go; so we stopped here ninedays, and I got such a bad ulceration of the tonguethat I could not speak. The chiefs came and claimedtheir blackmail, and also Kannena, so I had to payup all for nothing, as the gales began to threaten, andour crews insisted on putting to lake on May 6th.

We touched at various stages about the lake, andanchored at Mzimu, but we left again at sunset;the waves began to rise, the wind also, and it rainedin torrents. It was a doubt whether the co*ckleshellcraft could live through a short, choppy sea in heavyweather. I sheltered myself in my mackintosh as bestI might. Fortunately the rain beat down the windand the sea, or nothing could have saved us. Thenext morning Mabruki rushed into my tent, thrusta sword into my hands, and declared the Warundiwere upon us, and that the crews were rushing tothe boats and pushing them off. Knowing that theywould leave us stranded in case of danger, we hurriedin without delay; but no enemy appeared. It wasa false alarm.

On May 11th we paddled about a grassy inlet; onthe 12th we paddled again, and the next day we spentin Bangwe Bay. We were too proud to sneak homein the dark; we had done the expedition, and wewanted to be looked at by the fair and howled atby the valiant.

The next morning we appeared at the entrance ofKawele, and had a triumphal entrance. The peopleof the whole country-side assembled to welcome us,and pressed waist-deep into the water. My companionand I were repeatedly called for, but true merit isalways modest. We regained our old tembe, weresalaamed to by everybody, and it felt like a returnhome. The upshot of it all was this—​we had expendedupwards of a month exploring the TanganyikaLake.

I had explored it thoroughly. My health nowbegan to improve, my strength increased; my feetwere still swollen, but my hands lost their numbness,and I could again read and write. A relieved mindhad helped on this recovery—​the object of my expeditionwas now effected—​and I threw off the burden ofgrinding care with which the prospect of a probablefailure had sorely laden me.[6]

The rainy monsoon broke up after our return toKawele, and the climate became most enjoyable, butit was accompanied by that inexplicable melancholypeculiar to tropical countries. I have never felt thissadness in Egypt and Arabia, but I was never withoutit in India and Zanzibar. We were expecting storesand provisions, but we got not one single word fromthe agents who were to forward our things, and wantbegan to stare us in the face. Money was a necessity,or its equivalent. I had to engage porters for thehammocks, feed seventy-five mouths, to fee severalchieftains, and to incur the heavy expenses of two hundredand sixty miles’ marching back to Unyamyembe,so I had to supplement the sum allowed me bythe Royal Geographical Society with my own littlepatrimony. One thousand pounds does not go veryfar when it has to be divided amongst two hundredgreedy savages in two and a half years.

On May 22nd our ears were gladdened by thesound of musket-shots announcing arrivals, and then,after a long silence of eleven months, there arriveda caravan with boxes, bales, porters, slaves, and aparcel of papers and letters from Europe, India, andZanzibar. How we pounced upon them! Here wefirst knew of the Indian Mutiny. The caravanarrived at a crisis when it was really wanted, but asmy agent could not find porters for all the packages,he had kept back some of them, and what he sentme were the least useful. They would suffice totake us back to Unyamyembe, but were wholly inadequatefor exploring the southern end of Tanganyika,far less for returning to Zanzibar viâ the NyassaLake and Kilwa, as I had hoped to do.

On May 26th, 1858, we set out on our homewardjourney, and left Kawele en route for Unyamyembe.I shall never forget my last sunrise look onTanganyika. The mists, luminously fringed withpurple, were cut by filmy rays; the living fire shotforth broad beams over the light blue waters of thelake, and a soft breeze, the breath of the morning,awoke the waves into life.

I had great difficulties in getting away, but at nineo’clock we departed with a full gang of porters, andadvanced until the evening. Many troubles arose:a porter placed his burden upon the ground andlevanted, and being cognac and vinegar it was deeplyregretted; then the Unyamwezi guide, because hisnewly purchased slave girl had become footsore andunable to walk, cut her head off. All these disagreeablesI was obliged to smooth down as best I could.Then there was a great dread of savage tribes, andthere was also a fear of conflagration, a sort of prairiefire.

A sheet of flame, beginning with the size of a spark,would overspread the hillside, advancing on the wingsof the wind with the roaring, rushing sound of manyhosts, where the grass was thick, shooting huge forkedtongues high into the air, and tall trees, the patriarchsof the forest, yielded their lives to the blast. Onwardthe fire would sweep, smouldering and darkening wherethe rock afforded scanty fuel, then flickering, blazingup, and soaring on again over the brow of the hill,until the sheet became a thin line of fire, graduallyvanishing from the view.

On October 4th, after a week of halts and snails’marches, we at last reached Hanga, our former quartersin the western confines of the Unyamyembe district.Here my companion was taken seriously ill, andimmediately after our arrival at this foul village, wherewe were lodged in a sort of cow-house, full of verminand exposed directly to the fury of the cold gales, hecomplained, in addition to the deaf ear, an inflamedeye, and a swollen face, of a mysterious pain, which heknew not whether to attribute to the liver or thespleen. Shortly after this his mind began to wander,and then he underwent three fits of an epilepticdescription, which more closely resembled those ofhydrophobia than any I have ever witnessed. He washaunted by a crowd of hideous devils, giants, and lion-headeddemons, who were wrenching and stripping thesinews and tendons of his legs. He began to utter abarking noise, with a peculiar chopping motion of themouth and tongue. When the third spasm was over,he called for pen and paper, and, fearing that increasedweakness of mind and body might prevent any furtherexertion, he wrote an incoherent letter of farewell tohis family. That, however, was the crisis, and heafterwards spent a better night; the pains weremitigated, or, as he expressed it, “the knives weresheathed.”

As we were threatened with want of water on theway, I prepared for that difficulty by packing a boxwith empty bottles, which, when occasion required,might be filled at the springs. The zemzemiyah, ortravelling canteen of the East African, was everywherea long-necked gourd, slung to the shoulder by a string.But it became offensive after some use, and could neverbe entrusted to a servant for a mile before its contentswere exhausted.

We left Hanga, my companion being now better,on October 13th. Seven short marches between thatplace and Tura occupied fifteen days, a serious wasteof time, caused by the craving of the porters for theirhomes.

The stages now appeared shorter, the sun cooler,the breeze warmer, for, after fourteen months ofincessant fevers, we had become tolerably acclimatised;we were now loud in praise, as we had been in censure,of the water and air. Before re-entering the FieryField the hire for carrying hammocks became so exorbitantthat I dismissed the bearers, drew on my jackboots,mounted the Zanzibar ass, and appeared oncemore as the mtongi of a caravan. My companion wasalso now able to ride.

At Eastern Tura, where we arrived on October 28th,a halt was occasioned by the necessity of providingand preparing food for the week’s march through theFiery Field. The caravan was then mustered, and itcompleted altogether a party of one hundred andfifty-two souls.

On November 3rd the caravan, issuing from Tura,plunged manfully into the Fiery Field, and after sevenmarches in as many days—​we halted for breath andforage at the Round Stone—​Jiwe la Mkoa. Herewe procured a few rations, and resumed our way onNovember 12th, and in two days exchanged, with asensible pleasure, the dull expanse of dry brown bushand brushwood for the fertile red plain of Mdaburn.At that point began our re-transit of Ugogo, where Ihad been taught to expect accidents; they resolvedthemselves into nothing more than the disappearanceof cloth and beads in inordinate quantities. TheWanyamwezi porters seemed even more timid on thedown journey than on the up march. They slankabout like curs, and the fierce look of a Mgogo boywas enough to strike terror into their hearts. One ofthem would frequently indulge me in a dialogue likethe following, which may serve as a specimen of ourconversation in East Africa:—​

“The state, Mdula?” (i.e., Abdullah, a word unpronounceableto negroid organs).

“The state is very! (well), and thy state?”

“The state is very! (well), and the state ofSpikka?” (my companion).

“The state of Spikka is very! (well).”

“We have escaped the Wagogo, white man O!”

“We have escaped, O my brother!”

“The Wagogo are bad!”

“They are bad!”

“The Wagogo are very bad!”

“They are very bad!”

“The Wagogo are not good!”

“They are not good!”

“The Wagogo are not at all good!”

“They are not at all good!”

“I greatly feared the Wagogo, who killed theWanyamwezi!”

“Exactly so!”

“But now I don’t fear them. I call them ——​s and——​s, and I would fight the whole tribe, whiteman O!”

“Truly so, O my brother!”

And so on for two mortal hours.

The transit of Ugogo occupied three weeks, fromNovember 14th to December 5th. In Kanyenyewe were joined by a large caravan of Wanyamwezi,carrying ivories. On December 6th we arrivedat a halting place in the Ugogi Dhun, and weregreeted by another caravan, freshly arrived, commandedby Hindus, who, after receiving and returningnews with much solemnity, presently drew forth apacket of papers and letters, which as usual promisedtrouble, and the inevitable—​to me—​“officialwigging.” I also received the following pleasantletter:--

At Ugogo, which, it will be remembered, is consideredthe half-way station between Unyamyembe and thecoast, we were detained a day through difficulties withporters, who declared there was a famine upon theroad we had previously traversed, and also that agreat chief, who was also a great extortioner, waslikely to insist upon our calling upon him in person,which would involve a change of route. However,there was nothing to be done but to take the road.We loaded on December 7th, and began the passageof the Usagara Mountains, going this time by theKiringawana route.

Travelling by a roundabout way, we arrived atthe village of the chief Kiringawana on December19th, and the next day proceeded to palaver. Afterabundant chaffering, the chief accepted from theexpedition three expensive coloured cloths and otherthings, grumbling the while because we had neglectedto reserve for him something more worthy his acceptance;he returned a fat bullock, which was instantlyshot and devoured.

We resumed our march on December 22nd, whichwas almost entirely down-hill. We crossed in ablazing sun the fœtid plain, and after finding withsome difficulty the jungly path, we struck into apleasant forest. Presently we emerged again uponthe extremity of the Makata Plain, a hideous lowlevel of black vegetable earth, peaty in appearance,and bearing long puddles of dark and stagnant rain-water—​merehorse-ponds, with the additional qualitiesof miasma and mosquitoes. The transit of this plaintook some days.

The dawn of Christmas Day, 1858, saw us toilingalong the Kikoboga River, which we forded fourtimes. The road presently turned up a rough rise,from whose crest began the descent of the MabrukiPass. The descent was very steep and rough; thepath, spanning rough ground at the hill base, led usto the plains of Uziraha in K’hutu.

We had reserved a bullock in honour of ChristmasDay, but as he was lost, I ordered the purchase ofhalf a dozen goats to celebrate it, but the porterswere too lazy to collect them. My companion andI made good cheer upon a fat capon, which acted asroast beef, with a mess of ground-nuts sweetened withsugar-cane, which did duty as plum-pudding.

We started off again and entered Zungomero onDecember 29th. An army of black musketeers, inscanty but various and gaudy attire, came out tomeet us, and with the usual shots and shouts conductedus to the headman’s house. They then staredat us, as usual, for half a dozen consecutive hours,which done, they retired to rest.

We stayed at Zungomero some time and celebratedthe New Year there, but January 21st, 1859, enabledus to bid it adieu and merrily take to the footpathway. We made Konduchi on February 3rd, aftertwelve marches, which we accomplished in fourteendays. There is little of interest or adventure torecord in this return line, for we travelled over muchthe same ground we had done before.

As the mud near Dut’humi was throat-deep, wecrossed it lower down—​a weary trudge of severalmiles through thick, slabby mire, which admitted aman to his knees. In places, after toiling under asickly sun, we crept under tunnels of thick junglegrowth, the dank and fœtid cold causing a deadlysensation of faintness, which was only relieved bythe glass of æther sherbet, a pipe or two of thestrongest tobacco, and half an hour’s rest.

On January 30th our natives of Zanzibar screamedwith delight at the sight of the monkey-tree,an old, familiar sight to them. On February 2ndwe greeted, with doffed caps, and with three timesthree and one more, as Britons will do on suchoccasions, the kindly, smiling face of our fatherNeptune as he lay basking in the sunbeams betweenearth and air. February 3rd saw us windingthrough the poles decorated with skulls—​a sort ofnegro Temple Bar—​which pointed out the way intothe little village of Konduchi.

Our return was attended with much ceremony: thewar-men danced, shot, and shouted; a rabble ofadults, youths, and boys crowded upon us; the fairsex lulliloo’d with vigour; and a general processionconducted us to a hut, swept, cleaned, and garnishedfor us by the principal banyan of the village, and therethey laughed and stared at us until they could laughand stare no more.

We were detained at Konduchi for some days, andon February 9th the battela and the stores requiredfor our trip arrived from Zanzibar, and the nextday saw us rolling down the coast towards the Islandof Zanzibar, where we landed on March 4th, 1859.I was taken ill there, and my companion went homealone—​thereby hangs a tale. But I recovered aftera while, and left Zanzibar for Aden to catch thehomeward boat. I bade adieu to the “coal-hole ofthe East” on April 28th, 1859, and in due timearrived once more on the shores of Old England,after an absence of two years and eight months.

[6] At the time of which I write (1858) the Tanganyika had neverbefore been visited by any European.

THE CITY OF THE MORMONS
1860

I

THE JOURNEY

I  HAD long determined to add the last new name—​GreatSalt Lake City—​to my list of Holy Cities;to visit the new rival, soi-disant, of Memphis, Benares,Jerusalem, Rome, and Meccah; and to observe theorigin and working of a regular go-ahead Westernrevelation. Mingled with the wish of prospectingthe city of the Mormons from a spiritual point ofview was the mundane desire of enjoying a littleskirmishing with the savages, who had lately beengiving the “pale-faces” tough work to do.

The man was ready, the hour hardly appeared propitiousfor other than belligerent purposes. Throughoutthe summer of 1860 an Indian war was ragingin Nebraska; the Comanches, Kiowas, and Cheyenneswere “out”; the Federal Government had despatchedthree columns to the centres of confusion; intestinefeuds amongst the aborigines were talked of; theDakota, or Sioux, had threatened to “wipe out”their old foe the Pawnee. Both tribes were possessorsof the soil over which the road to GreatSalt Lake City ran. Horrible accounts of murderedpost-boys and cannibal emigrants, grossly exaggeratedas usual, filled the papers. “Going amongst theMormons!” said a friend to me at New Orleans.“They are shooting and cutting one another in alldirections. How can you expect to escape?” Butsagely reflecting that “dangers which loom large fromafar generally lose size as one draws near,” and thateven the Mormons might turn out less black thanthey were painted, I resolved to run the risk of the“red nightcap” from the bloodthirsty Indians andthe poisoned bowie-dagger from the jealous Latter-DaySaints. I therefore applied myself to thenaudacious task of an expedition to the City of theMormons.

There were three roads to be chosen from—​thethree main lines, perhaps, for a Pacific railway betweenthe Mississippi and the Western Ocean—​the northern,the central, and the southern. The first, or British,was not to be thought of, since it involved semi-starvation,a possible plundering by the Bedouins, and,what was far worse, five or six months of slow travel.The third, or southern, took twenty-four days andnights, and the journey was accompanied by excessiveheat in a malarial climate, to say nothing of poisonousfood. There remained only the central road, whichhas two branches; of these I chose the great emigrantroad from Missouri to California. The mail coachon this line was not what one would call luxurious,and the hours of halting-places were badly selected.The schedule time from St. Joseph, Missouri, to GreatSalt Lake City was twenty-one days; we accomplishedit, it turned out, in nineteen. I therefore travelledto St. Joseph, disrespectfully known as St. Jo, boughtmy ticket, and prepared to start.

An important part in my preparations was the kit,which in my case was represented as follows:—​OneIndia-rubber blanket, pierced in the centre for a poncho,and with buttons and elastic loops, which convertedit into a carpet bag. I ought to have added abuffalo robe as a bed, but ignorance prevented. Withone’s coat as a pillow, a buffalo robe, and a blanket,one might defy the dangerous “bunks” of the stations.For weapons I carried two revolvers. In those days,from the moment of leaving St. Joseph to the timeof reaching Placerville or Sacramento, the pistol oughtnever to be absent from a man’s right hand, nor thebowie-knife from his left. Contingencies with Indiansand others might happen, when the difference of aninstant might save life. In dangerous places the revolvershould be discharged and loaded every morning, bothfor the purpose of keeping the hand in and doingthe weapon justice. A revolver is an admirable toolwhen properly used. Those, however, who are tooidle or careless to attend to it had better carry a pairof “Derringers.” I took also some opium, which isinvaluable on the prairie, and some other drugs againstfever. The “holy weed, Nicotian,” was not forgotten,for cigars were most useful, as the driver eitherreceived or took the lion’s share. The prairietraveller was not very particular about his clothes;the easiest dress was a dark flannel shirt, worn overthe normal article, no braces, but a broad leather beltfor a six-shooter and a “Kansas tooth-pick,” a longclasp-knife. The nether garments were forked withgood buckskin, or they would infallibly have givenout, and the lower ends were tucked into the boots,after the sensible fashion of our grandfathers. Incold weather—​the nights were rarely warm—​there wasnothing better than an old English shooting-jacket;for riding or driving a large pair of buckskin gloves,or rather gauntlets, were advisable, and we did notforget spurs. The best hat was a brown felt, which,by boring holes around the brim to admit a ribbon,could be converted into a riding-hat or a nightcap,as you pleased. Having got my kit and purchasedmy ticket, I was ready to start.

Precisely at 8 a.m. on Tuesday, August 7th, 1860,there appeared in front of the Patee House, the FifthAvenue Hotel of St. Joseph, the vehicle destined tobe my home for the next three weeks. I scrutinisedit curiously. It was what was known as a “concordcoach,” a spring waggon, of which the body is shapedsomething like an English tax-cart considerably magnified.It paid no regard to appearances, but was safe,strong, and light. The wheels were five to six feetapart, affording security against capsizing; the tyreswere of unusual thickness, and polished like steel bythe hard, dry ground. The waggon bed was supportedby iron bands, and the whole bed was covered withstout osnaburg, supported by strong bars of whiteoak. There was a sunshade, or hood, in front wherethe driver sat, a curtain behind, which could be raisedor lowered at discretion, and four flaps on each side,either folded up, or fastened down with hooks andeyes. The coach was drawn by a team of four mules,which were much preferred to horses as being moreenduring. The rate of travel, on an average, was fivemiles an hour. This was good; between seven andeight was the maximum, which sank in hilly countryto three or four.

We were detained more than an hour before westarted. Our “plunder,” as they called the luggage,was clapped on with little ceremony, and when allwas packed away (and a good deal of the comfort ofthe journey depended on the packing), we rattledthrough the dusty roads of St. Jo, got on the steamferry, which conveyed us from the right to the leftbank of the Missouri River, and landed us in“bleeding” Kansas. We then fell at once into theemigrant road, as it was called, to the Far West, agreat thoroughfare at this point, open, broad, andwell worn as a European turnpike or a Roman militaryroad, and undoubtedly the best and longest naturalhighway in the world.

At first the scene was one of a luxuriant vegetation;but after an hour of burning sun and sickly damp,the effects of the late storms, we emerged from thewaste of vegetation on to the region of the GrandPrairie. Over the rolling surface, which rarely brokeinto hill or dale, lay a tapestry of thick grass, alreadyturning to a ruddy yellow under the influence ofapproaching autumn. Nothing, I may remark, is moremonotonous, except the African and Indian jungle,than these prairie tracks. You saw, as it were, theends of the earth, and looked around in vain forsome object upon which the eye might rest; it wantedthe sublimity of repose so suggestive in the sandydeserts, and the perpetual motion so pleasing in theaspect of the sea.

Passing through a few wretched shanties called Troy,in Syracuse, we arrived about three o’clock at ColdSprings, where we were allowed an hour’s halt todine and change mules. The scene was the “rale”Far West. The widow body to whom the shanty ofthe station belonged lay sick with fever, and the aspectof her family was a “caution to snakes.” The ill-conditionedsons dawdled about, listless as Indians,in skin tunics, and the daughters, whose sole attirewas apparently a calico morning wrapper, waited onus in a grudging way in the wretched log hut, whichappeared ignorant of the duster and the broom.Myriads of flies disputed with us a dinner consistingof dough-nuts, suspicious eggs in a greasy fritter, andrusty bacon, intolerably fat. It was our first sight ofsquatter life, and, except in two cases, it was our worst.

We drove on all the afternoon and all the night,except for a halt for supper. The last part of ourjourney was performed under a heavy thunderstorm.Gusts of violent wind whizzed overhead, thundercrashed and rattled, and vivid lightning, flashing outof the murky depths around, made earth and airone blaze of fire. We arrived about one o’clock a.m.at Locknan’s station, a few log huts near a creek.Here we found beds and snatched an hour of sleep.So passed the first day.

It is not my purpose to describe the journey dayby day, for it lasted nineteen days, and one day wasoften much like another. I shall therefore contentmyself with picking out the chief points of intereston the route.

Before long the prairies wore a burnt-up aspect.As far as the eye could see the tintage was that ofthe Arabian desert. It was still, however, too earlyfor prairie fires, and I therefore did not witness thismagnificent spectacle. In some parts, where the grassis tall and rank, and the roaring flames leap beforethe fire with the stride of a maddened horse, thedanger is imminent, and the spectacle must be oneof awful sublimity.

I said at first that the prairie scenery was monotonous,and so on the whole it was, but every now and thenwe came upon beautiful oases in the desert. Suchwas the valley of the Little Blue River, fringed withemerald-green oak groves, cotton wood, and long-leavedwillow. As we got on to the tableland abovethis river, between that and the River Platte, theevening approached, and a smile from above lit upinto perfect beauty the features of the world below.It was a glorious sunset. Stratum upon stratum ofcloud banks, burnished to golden red in the vicinity ofthe setting sun, and polished to dazzling silvery whiteabove, lay piled half-way from the horizon to thezenith, with a distinct strike towards a vanishingpoint to the west and dipping into a gateway, throughwhich the orb of day slowly retired. Overhead floated,in a sea of amber and yellow, pink and green heavypurple clouds, whilst in the east black and blue wereso curiously blended that the eye could not distinguishwhether it rested upon a darkening air or a loweringthunder-cloud. We enjoyed these beauties, I am gladto say, in silence; not a soul said “Look there!” or“How pretty!”

When we came to the fork of the great RiverPlatte we saw from time to time a line of Indianremoves. This meant that these wild people wereshifting their quarters for grass, and when it becamea little colder they sought some winter abode onthe banks of a stream which supplied fuel and wherethey could find meat, so that with warmth and food,song and talk, and smoke and sleep, they could whileaway the dull and dreary winter.

The remove of an Indian village presented aninteresting sight. The animated and shifting sceneof bucks and braves, squaws and papooses, poniesdwarfed by bad breeding and hard living, dogs andpuppies—​all straggled over the plains westward. Infront, singly or in pairs, rode the men, as if bornupon, and bred to become part of, the animal; somewent bare-backed, others rode upon a saddle tree.In some cases the saddle was trimmed with beadhangings. Their long, lank, thick, brownish-blackhair, ruddy from the effects of the weather, was wornparted in the middle. This parting in men, as wellas in women, was generally coloured with vermilion,and plates of brass or tin were inserted into thefront hair. They wore many ornaments, and thebody dress was a tight-sleeved waistcoat over anAmerican cotton shirt, scarlet and blue being thecolours preferred. The garb ended with buckskinleggings and moccasins. The braves were armedwith small tomahawks, or iron hatchets, which theycarried with the powder horn in the belt on the rightside. Their nags were lean and ungroomed. Theytreat them as cruelly as do the Somali, yet nothing—​shortof whiskey—​could persuade an Indian warriorto part with his favourite steed. Behind the warriorsand the braves followed the baggage of the village.The rich squaws rode in litters, the poorer followedtheir pack-horses on foot. Their garb did not a littleresemble their lords, and I saw no great beauty amongthem, young or old, rich or poor. La belle savage ofthe party had large and languishing eyes, dentists’teeth that glittered, and silky, long, black hair likethe ears of a Blenheim spaniel. Her ears and neckwere laden with tinsel ornaments, and she was veryfinely dressed. There was with the cavalcade a greatcompany of boys and girls.

On the sixth day we crossed the Platte. We hadspent most of the night in the waggon, most uncomfortably.At 3.15 a.m., hungry and thirsty, and by nomeans in the best of humours, we heard with joy thesavage “Yep, yep, yep,” with which the driver waswont to announce our approach to a station. Presentlythe plank lodging appeared through the darkness.We sprang out of the ambulance; but all was darkand silent as the grave: the station was asleep. Aheavy kick opened the door of the restaurant, when awheezy, drowsy voice from an inner room asked us inGerman-English, “And how ze komen in?” Withoutwaiting to answer we pulled the owner of it outof bed, and ordered supper, refreshment, and repose.But he raised all sorts of difficulties, and it ended withour sitting down and staring at the fire and waitingfor the vile food which he provided for our breakfast.I should like here to describe an ordinary prairie breakfast,the one which greeted us nearly all through ourjourney. First, the coffee, three parts burnt beans,which had been duly ground to a fine powder andexposed to the air lest the aroma should prove toostrong for us. It was placed on the stove to simmer,till every noxious principle was duly extracted fromit. Then the rusty bacon, cut into thick slices, wasthrust into the frying-pan; here the gridiron wasunknown. Thirdly, antelope steak, cut off a carcasesuspended for the benefit of flies outside was placedto stew within influence of the bacon’s aroma. Lastlycame the bread, which, of course, should have beencooked first. The meal was kneaded with water anda pinch of salt; the raising was done by means of alittle sour malt, or more generally by the deleteriousyeast powders of the trade. The dough, after havingbeen sufficiently manipulated, was divided into doughnuts,or biscuits, and finally it was placed to be half-cookedunder the immediate influence of the rustybacon and rancid antelope. Uncle Sam’s stove wasa triumph of convenience, cheapness, unwholesomeness,and nastiness. It made everything taste like itsneighbour; by virtue of it mutton borrowed theflavour of fish, and tomatoes resolved themselves intothe flavour of greens.

One of the most notable points of our journey wasScott’s Bluffs, the last of the great marl formationswhich break the dull uniformity of the prairies. Beforewe came to them we passed the far-famed ChimneyRock, which lies two and a half miles from the southbank of the Platte. Viewed from the south-east, itwas not unlike a gigantic jack-boot poised on a highpyramidal mound; I took a sketch of it. Scott’sBluffs are far more striking and attractive objects;indeed, they excel the Castle Craig of Drachenfels orany of the beauties of the romantic Rhine. From thedistance of a day’s march they appeared in the shapeof a large blue mound. As you approached withinfour or five miles, a massive mediæval city graduallydefined itself, clustering with wonderful fulness ofdetail round a colossal fortress, and crowned witha royal castle. It was indeed a beautiful castle onthe rock, and that nothing may be wanting to theresemblance, the dashing rains and angry winds havecut the old line of road at its base into a regular moatwith a semicircular sweep, which the mirage fills witha mimic river. Quaint figures develop themselves,guards and sentinels in dark armour keep watch andward upon the slopes, the lion of Bastia crouched unmistakablyoverlooking the road, and, as the shadesof evening closed in, so weird was its aspect that onemight almost expect to see some spectral horseman gohis rounds about the broken walls. At a nearer aspectthe quaint illusion vanished, the lines of masonrybecame great layers of boulder, curtains and angleschanged to the gnashing rents of ages, and the warriorswere transformed into dwarf cedars and dense shrubs.Travellers have compared Scott’s Bluffs to Gibraltar,to the Capitol at Washington, and to Stirling Castle; Icould think of nothing in its presence but the Arabs’“City of Brass,” that mysterious abode of bewitchedinfidels, which often appears to the wayfarer toilingunder the sun, but which for ever eludes his nearersearch.

On our last day in the Platte Valley, just before weentered the Sioux territory, we came to Horseshoestation, which was impressed upon my memory by onething, which I shall presently explain. We werestruck by the aspect of the buildings, which wereon an extensive scale; in fact, got up regardless ofexpense. An immense silence, however, reigned. Atlast, by hard knocking, we were admitted into a housewith a Floridan verandah. By the pretensions of theroom we were at once threatened with a “lady.”Our mishap was really worse than we expected, for inreality we were exposed to two “ladies,” and one ofthese was a Bloomer. This, it is fair to state, was theonly hermaphrodite of the kind that ever met my eyesin the States; the great founder of the Bloomer orderhas long since subsided into her original obscurity,and her acolytes have relapsed into petticoats. TheBloomer was an uncouth being, her hair, cut level withher eyes, depended with the graceful curl of a drake’stail around a fat and flabby countenance, whose onlyexpression was sullen insolence. Her body-dress,glazed brown calico, fitted her somewhat like a soldier’stunic, developing haunches which would be admiredonly in venison; and—​curious inconsequence ofwoman’s nature!—​all this sacrifice of appearance uponthe shrine of comfort did not prevent her wearing thatkind of crinoline depicted by Mr. Punch around “ourMary Hanne.” The pantolettes of glazed browncalico, like the vest, tunic, blouse, shirt, or whateverthey may call it, were in peg-top style, admirablysetting off a pair of thin-soled, Frenchified, patent-leatherbottines, with elastic sides, which contained feetas large, broad, and flat as a negro’s in Africa. Thedear creature had a husband: it was hardly safe tolook at her, and as for sketching her, I avoided it.The other “lady,” though more decently attired, waslike women in this wild part of the world generally—​coldand disagreeable, with a touch-me-not air, whichreminded me of a certain

Her husband was the renowned Slade, who had thereputation of having killed his three men. Thispleasant individual “for an evening party” wore arevolver and bowie-knife here, there, and everywhere.It at once became evident that this station was notconducted for the public convenience. One of ourparty who had ventured into the kitchen was fiercelyejected by the “ladies,” and, asking for dormitories,we were informed that lady travellers were admittedinto the house, but men could sleep where they could.We found a barn outside; it was hardly fit for adecently brought up pig: the floor was damp andknotty; there was not even a door to keep out thenight breeze; and several drunken fellows lay aboutin different parts of it. Into this disreputable holewe were all thrust for the night. “May graciousHeaven,” I prayed, “keep us safe from all ‘ladies’ infuture!” Better a hundred times the squaw, with heruncleanliness and her civility!

It was about the tenth day of our journey that theformation of the land began to warn us that we wereapproaching, as yet far off, the Rocky Mountains.We saw for the first time a train of Mormon waggons,twenty-four in number, slowly wending their waytowards the Promised Land. The “captain” wasyoung Brigham Young, a nephew of the Prophet—​afine fellow, with yellow hair and beard, an intelligentcountenance, a six-shooter by his right, and a bowie-knifeby his left side. It was impossible to mistake,even through the veil of freckles and sunburn withwhich a two months’ journey had invested them, thenationality of these emigrants—​“British-English” waswritten all over them. One young person concealedher facial attractions under a manner of mask.I though that perhaps she might be a sultana, reservedfor the establishment of some very magnificentMormon bashaw; but the driver, when appealed to,responded with contempt, “’Guess old Briggy won’tstampede many o’ that ere lot!” Though homelyin appearance, they seemed to be healthy and well fed.

The same day, a little later, we crossed a war partyof Arapahos; they looked less like warriors than aband of horse-stealers, and though they had set outwith the determination of bringing back some Utahscalps and fingers, they had not succeeded. The warparty consisted of some dozen warriors, with a fewlimber, lithe lads. They had sundry lean, sorry-lookingnags, which were presently turned out tograze. Dirty rags formed the dress of the band;their arms were the usual light lances, garnished withleather at the handles, with two cropped tufts and along loose feather dangling from them. They carriedmangy buffalo robes; and scattered upon the groundwas a variety of belts, baldricks, and pouches, withsplit porcupine quills dyed a saffron yellow. I foundthem sulky and not disposed to be communicative, afact which, no doubt, was accounted for by the ill-successof their expedition.

I have given some account of the “ladies” wemet en route; in fairness one must reverse the shield,for, at a station forbiddingly known as the Devil’sPost-Office, we came across an Englishwoman, a“Miss” Moore (Miss is still used for Mrs. by Westernmen and negroes), who was a pattern of cleanliness,tidiness, civility, and housewifery in general. Herlittle ranche was neatly swept and garnished, paperedand ornamented. The table-cloth was clean, so wasthe cooking, and so were the children, and I wasreminded of Europe by the way in which she insistedupon washing my shirt, an operation which, afterleaving the Missouri, had fallen to my own lot. Thisday also introduced me to the third novel sensationon the western side of the Atlantic. The first wasto feel that all men were your equal; that you wereno man’s superior, and that no man was yours. Thesecond—​this is spoken as an African wanderer—​was tosee one’s quondam acquaintance, the Kaffir or Negro,put by his grass kilt and coat of grease, invest himselfin broadcloth, part his wool on one side, shave, and callhimself, not Sambo, but “Mr. Scott.” The thirdwas to meet in the Rocky Mountains with thiswoman, a refreshing specimen of that far-off OldWorld. “Miss” Moore’s husband, a decent appendage,had transferred his belief from the Church ofEngland to the Church of Utah, and the good wife,as in duty bound, had followed in his wake. Butwhen the Serpent came and whispered in “Miss”Moore’s modest, respectable, one-idea’d ear that theAbrahams of Great Salt Lake City were mere“Shamabrams,” and not content with Sarahs, butadded to them an unlimited supply of Hagars, herpower of endurance broke down. Not an inch wouldshe budge, not a step nearer to the City of the Saintswould she take. She fought against the impendingmisfortune, and she succeeded in reducing her husbandto submission and making him earn a good livelihoodas station-master on the waggon-line—​he who mighthave been a Solomon in the City of the Saints!

The evening of the next day, when we hadreached Pacific Springs, the Wind River Mountainsappeared in marvellous majesty. It was one of thesights of the journey. The huge purple hangingsof rain-clouds in the northern sky set off their vastproportions, and gave prominence, as in a stereoscope,to their gigantic forms and their upper heights, hoarwith the frosts of ages. The setting sun diffuseda charming softness over their more rugged features,defining the folds and ravines with a distinctnesswhich deceived every idea of distance. As the lightsank beyond the far western horizon it travelledslowly up the mountain side, till, reaching the summit,it mingled its splendours with the snow. Nor wasthe scene less lovely in the morning hour, as thefirst effulgence of day fell upon the masses of dew-cloud,lit up the peaks, which gleamed like silver,and poured streams of light and warmth over thebroad skirts reposing on the plain.

On August 25th, the nineteenth day of our journey,we set out at 7 a.m. to breast the Wasach, the lastand highest chain of the mountain mass before wereached Great Salt Lake Valley, and to arrive at ourdestination—​the New Jerusalem, the future Zion onthe tops of the mountains. The road up the bigmountain was a very rough one, lined on either sidewith great trees—​hemlocks, firs, and balsam-pines. Thevaried hues of the quaking ash were there also; thebeech, dwarf oak, and thickets of elders and wild roses;whilst over all the warm autumnal tints alreadymingled with the bright green of summer. The ascentbecame more and more rugged; this steep pitch,at the end of a thousand miles of hard work and semi-starvation,caused the death of many a wretched animal.Towards the summit it rises sharpest. Here wedescended from the waggon, which the four muleshad work enough to draw. The big mountain lieseighteen miles from the city; the top is a narrowcrest. From that eyrie, eight thousand feet abovesea-level, the weary pilgrim first sights his shrine,the object of his long wanderings, hardships, andperils—​the Happy Valley of the Great Salt Lake.

After a few minutes’ delay to stand and gaze, weresumed the footpath way, whilst the mail-waggon,with wheels rough-locked, descended what appearedto be an impracticable slope. Falling into the gorgeof Big Kanyon Creek, we reached about midday astation, half stifled by the thick dust and the sun.We slaked our thirst with the cool water that trickleddown the hill by the house side. Presently the station-masterarrived; he was introduced to us as Mr. EphHanks. I had often heard of him as a Mormondesperado, leader of the dreaded Danite band, anda model ruffian. We found him very pleasant andsociable, though a facetious allusion to the dangersthat awaited us under the roof of the Danite wasmade. We had dinner there, and, after a friendlyleave, we entered the mail-waggon again, and preparedourselves for the last climb over the western-mostreach of the Wasach.

The road was now only a narrow shelf, and frequentfordings were rendered necessary by the capriciouswanderings of the torrent. At one of the mostticklish turns our driver kindly pointed out a precipicewhere four of the mail passengers fell and broke theirnecks. He also entertained us with sundry otherhorrible tales. In due time, emerging from the gatesand portals and deep serrations of the upper course,we descended into a lower level, and the valleypresently lay full before our sight. At this placethe pilgrim emigrants, like the hajis of Jerusalemand Meccah, were wont to give vent to the emotionspent up in their bosoms by sobs and tears, laughterand congratulations, psalms and hysterics. It is indeedno wonder that children danced, that strong mencheered and shouted, and that nervous women, brokenwith fatigue and hope deferred, screamed and fainted;that the ignorant fondly believed that the “Spirit ofGod” pervaded the very atmosphere, and that Zionon the tops of the mountains is nearer Heaven thanthe other parts of the earth. In good sooth, thoughuninfluenced by religious fervour—​beyond the naturalsatisfaction of seeing a brand new Holy City—​evenI could not, after nineteen days of the mail-waggon,gaze upon the scene without emotion.

The hour was about 6 p.m., the atmosphere wastouched with a dreamy haze, and a little bank of rose-colouredclouds, edged with flames of purple and gold,floated in the upper air, whilst the mellow radianceof an American autumn diffused its mild, soft lustreover the face of the earth. The sun was setting ina flood of heavenly light behind the bold, jaggedoutline of Antelope Island. At its feet, and thenbounding the far horizon, lay, like a band of burnishedsilver, the Great Salt Lake, that innocent Dead Sea.South-westwards, and the Oquirrh Range sharplysilhouetted against the depths of an evening sky.

The undulating valley-plain between us and theOquirrh Range, once a howling wilderness givenover to a few miserable savages, was now the site ofa populous city. Truly the Mormon prophecy hadbeen fulfilled; the desert had blossomed like the rose.

As we descended the Wasach Mountains we couldlook and enjoy the view of the Happy Valley, andthe bench-land then attracted our attention. Theeastern valley-bench, upon whose western declivitythe city lies, may be traced on a clear day along thebase of the mountains for a distance of twentymiles. As we advanced over the bench-ground,the city by slow degrees broke upon our sight. Itshowed, one may readily believe, to special advantageafter a succession of Indian lodges, Canadian ranchos,and log-hut mail-stations of the prairies and themountains. About two miles north, and overlookingthe settlements from a height of four hundred feet,a detached cone called Ensign Mount rose at the endof a chain, and overhung and sheltered the north-easterncorner of the valley. Upon this mount the spirit ofthe martyred Prophet, Mr. Joseph Smith, is said tohave appeared to his successor, Mr. Brigham Young,and pointed out to him the position of the new temple,which, after Zion had “got up into the high mountain,”was to console the saints for the loss of Nauvoo theBeautiful.

The city was about two miles broad, runningparallel with the right bank of the Jordan, whichforms its western limit. As we approached, it laystretched before us as upon a map; at a littledistance the aspect was somewhat Oriental, and in somepoints it reminded me of modern Athens—​without theAcropolis. None of the buildings, except the Prophet’shouse, were whitewashed. The material, the thick,sun-dried adobe, common to all parts of the Easternworld, was here of a dull leaden blue, deepened by theatmosphere to a grey, like the shingles of the roofs.The number of gardens and compounds, the darkclumps of cottonwood, locust, or acacia, fruit trees—​apples,peaches and vines—​and, finally, the fields oflong-eared maize, strengthened the similarity to anAsiatic rather than to an American settlement. Butthe difference presently became as marked. Farmhouses strongly suggested the old country; moreover,domes and minarets, even churches and steeples, werewholly wanting. The only building conspicuous fromafar was the block occupied by the present Headof the Church. The court-house, with its tinned,Muscovian dome; the arsenal, a barn-like structure;and a saw-mill were next in importance.

As we entered the suburbs, the houses were almostall of one pattern, a barn shape, and the diminutivecasem*nts showed that window glass was not yet madein the valley. The poorer houses are small, low, andhut-like; the others, single-storied buildings, somewhatlike stables, with many entrances. The best housesresembled East Indian bungalows, with flat roofs andlow, shady verandahs, well trellised, and supported byposts or pillars. I looked in vain for the outhouse-harems,in which certain romancers concerning thingsMormon had told me that wives were kept, like otherstock. I presently found this one of a multitude ofdelusions. The people came out to their doors tosee the mail-coach, as if it were a “Derby dilly” ofold, go by. I was struck by the English appearanceof the colony, and the prodigious numbers of white-headedchildren.

Presently we turned into the main thoroughfare,the centre of population and business, where the housesof the principal Mormon dignitaries and the stores ofthe Gentile merchants combined to form the city’sonly street, properly so called. We pulled up at theSalt Lake House, the principal if not the only establishmentof the kind in New Zion. In the Far West onelearns not to expect much of a hostelry, and I had notseen one so grand for many a day. It was a two-storiedbuilding, with a long verandah supported by paintedposts. There was a large yard behind for corallingcattle. A rough-looking crowd of drivers and theirfriends and idlers, almost every man armed withrevolver and bowie-knife, gathered round the doorwayto prospect the “new lot.” The host presently cameout to assist us in carrying in our luggage. Therewas no bar, but upstairs we found a Gentile ball-room,a fair sitting-room, and bedchambers, apparently madeout of a single apartment by partitions too thin tobe strictly agreeable. The proprietor was a Mormonwho had married an Englishwoman. We found himin the highest degree civil and obliging. To sum up,notwithstanding some considerable drawbacks, myfirst experience of the Holy City of the Far West wasdecidedly better than I expected.

Our journey had occupied nineteen days, fromAugust 7th to 25th both included, and in that timewe had accomplished not less than 1,136 statute miles.

II

THE CITY AND ITS PROPHET

Before giving any detailed account of the Mormons,I should like to say that I was twenty-four days atheadquarters, and every opportunity was given meof surface observation; but there is in Mormondom,as in all other exclusive faiths, Jewish, Hindu, or other,an inner life, into which I cannot flatter myself tohave penetrated. No Gentile, however long he maylive in Salt Lake City, or how intimately he may beconnected with the Mormons, can expect to see anythingbut the outside. The different accounts whichhave been given of life in the City of the Saints byanti-Mormons and apostates are venomous and misleading,whilst the writings of the faithful are necessarilyuntrustworthy. I therefore take the middledistance of the unprejudiced observer, and can onlyrecount, honestly and truthfully, what I heard, felt,and saw.

The day after my arrival I went to see theGovernor, the Hon. Alfred Cumming, who had beenappointed by the President of the United States toassume the supreme executive authority at Great SaltLake City. The conditions were that polygamy shouldnot be interfered with, nor forcible measures resortedto, except in extremest need. Governor Cumming,accompanied by his wife, with an escort of six hundreddragoons, entered the city in the spring of 1858,shortly after the Mormons were in open rebellionagainst the Federal authority. By firmness, prudence,and conciliation, he not only prevented any collisionbetween the local militia and the United States army,but succeeded in restoring order and obediencethroughout the territory. He was told that his lifewas in danger, and warned that he might share thefate of Governor Boggs, who was shot through themouth when standing at the window. His answerwas to enlarge the casem*nts of his house, in orderto give the shooters a fair chance. The impartialitywhich he brought to bear in the discharge of hisdifficult and delicate duties, and his resolution totreat the saints like Gentiles and citizens, not as DiggerIndians or felons, had not, when I was at GreatSalt Lake City, won him the credit which he deservedfrom either party. The anti-Mormons abused him,and declared him to be a Mormon in Christian disguise;the Mormons, though more moderate, couldnever, by their very organisation, be content witha temporal and extraneous power existing side byside with a spiritual power. Governor Cumming didnot meet his predecessor, the ex-Governor, BrighamYoung, except on public duty. Mrs. Cummingvisited Mrs. Young and the houses of the principaldignitaries, this being the only society in the place.Amongst the Moslems a Lady Mary WortleyMontagu could learn more of domestic life in aweek than a man could in a year. So it was amongthe Mormons, and Mrs. Cumming’s knowledge farexceeded all that I might ever hope to gain.

The leading feature of Great Salt Lake City wasMain, otherwise Whiskey, Street. This broadwaywas 132 feet wide, including twenty sidewalks, and,like the rest of the principal avenues, was plantedwith locust and other trees. The whole city wasdivided up into wide streets, and planted with trees.The stores were far superior to the shops of anEnglish country town; the public buildings were fewand unimposing. I was disappointed with the Templeblock, the only place of public and general worshipin the city; when I was there it was unfinished, amere waste. The Tabernacle, the principal building,required enlarging, and was quite unfitted for thetemple of a new faith. It seemed hardly in accordancewith the energy and devotedness of this newreligion that such a building should represent theHouse of the Lord, while Mr. Brigham Young, theProphet, thinking of his own comfort before the gloryof God, was lodged, like Solomon of old, in what wascomparatively a palace. Near the Tabernacle was theEndowment House, or place of great medicine. Manyrites took place here in secret that were carefully concealedfrom Gentile eyes, and with a result that humansacrifices were said to be performed within its walls.Personally, I did not believe in these orgies; therewere probably ceremonies of the nature of masonicrites. Gentiles declared that the ceremonies consistedof a sort of miracle play, and a respectable judge waspopularly known as “The Devil,” because he wassupposed to play the part of the Father of Sin whentempting Adam and Eve. It was said that baptismby total immersion was performed, and the ceremonyoccupied eleven or twelve hours, the neophyte, afterbathing, being anointed with oil, and dressed in cleanwhite garments, cap and shirt, of which the latter wasrarely removed.

On the Monday after my arrival a smoke-likecolumn towards the east announced that the emigrantswere crossing the bench-land, and the people hurriedfrom all sides to greet them. Of course, I went,too, as the arrival of these emigrants, or ratherprilgrims, was one of the sights of the City of theSaints. Presently the carts came. All the new arrivalswere in clean clothes, the men washed and shaved,and the girls were singing hymns, habited in Sundaydress. Except the very young and the very old,the company of pilgrims did not trouble the waggons.They marched through clouds of dust over the sandyroad leading to the town, accompanied by crowds,some on foot, others on horseback, and a few in traps.A score of youths of rather rowdy appearance weremounted in all the tawdriness of Western trappings—​RockyMountain hats, embroidered buckskin garments,red flannel shirts, gigantic spurs, pistols and knivesstuck in red sashes with depending ends. By-and-bythe train of pilgrims reached the public square, andhere, before the invasion of the Federal army, the firstPresident used to make a point of honouring thearrival of pilgrims by a greeting in person. Not so onthis occasion; indeed, it was whispered that BrighamYoung seldom left his house except for the Tabernacle,and, despite his powerful will and high moral courage,did not show the personal intrepidity of Mr. JosephSmith. He had guards at his gates, and neverappeared in public unattended by friends and followers,who were, of course, armed. On this occasion theplace of Mr. Brigham Young was taken by President-BishopHunter. Preceded by a brass band, and accompaniedby the City Marshal, the Bishop stood up inhis conveyance, and calling up the captains of companies,shook hands with them, and proceeded forthwith tobusiness. In a short time arrangements were madefor the housing and employment of all who requiredwork, whether men or women. Everything wasconducted with decorum.

I mingled freely among the crowd, and was introducedto many, whose names I did not remember.Indeed, the nomenclature of the Mormons was apt tobe rather confusing, because, in order to distinguishchildren of different mothers, it was usual to prefix thematernal to the paternal parents’ name, suppressingthe Christian name altogether. Thus, for instance,my sons, if I had any, by Miss Brown and Miss Jonesand Miss Robinson respectively, would call themselvesBrother Brown-Burton, Brother Jones-Burton, andBrother Robinson-Burton. The saints, even thehighest dignitaries, waive the reverend and theridiculous esquire, that “title much in use amongvulgar people.” The Mormon pontiff and theeminences around him are simply brother or mister.En revanche, amongst the crowd there are as manycolonels and majors, about ten being the proportionto one captain, as in the days when Mrs. Trollopeset the Mississippi on fire. Sister is applied to womenof all ages, whether married or single.

Many of the pilgrims were English, who had crossedover the plains, looking towards Mr. Brigham Youngand Great Salt Lake City much as Roman Catholicsregard the Pope and Rome. The arrangementsfor their convoy appeared to have been admirable,but many tales were told of mismangement. Anold but favourite illustration of the trials of inexperiencedtravellers from the Mississippi to Californiawas as follows. A man rode up to a standingwaggon, and seeing a wretched-looking lad nursing astarving baby, asked him what the matter might be:“Wal now,” responded the youth, “guess I’m kinderstreakt—​ole dad’s drunk, ole marm’s in hy-sterics,brother Jim be playing poker with two gamblers, sisterSal’s down yonder a-courtin’ with an in-tire stranger,this ’ere baby’s got the diaree, the team’s clean guv out,the waggon’s broke down, it’s twenty miles to thenext water. I don’t care a damn if I never seeCaliforny!”

The dress of the fair sex in Great Salt Lake Citywas somewhat peculiar. The article called in Cornwalla “gowk,” in other parts of England a “cottagebonnet,” was universally used, plus a long, thick veilbehind, which acts as a cape or shawl. A loose jacketand a petticoat, mostly of calico or some inexpensivestuff, made up all that was visible. The wealthierladies affected silks, especially black. Love of dress,however, was as great among the sisters as in womenin any other part of the world; in fact, I noticed thatthis essential is everywhere a pleasing foible, and thesemi-nude savage, the crinolined “civilisee,” the nunand the quakeress, the sinner and the saint, the bicheand the grande dame, all meet for once in their livespretty much on a par and on the same ground.

The sisters of Great Salt Lake City—​at least, thenative ones—​were distinctly good-looking, with regularfeatures, lofty brow, clear complexion, long, silkyhair, and a bewitching soft smile. It would seem thatpolygamy had agreed with them. The belle of thecity, so far as I could see, was a Miss Sally A——​,daughter of a judge. Strict Mormons, however, ratherwagged their heads at this pretty person. She wassupposed to prefer Gentile and heathenish society,and it was whispered against her that she had actuallyvowed never to marry a saint.

The City of the Saints was not a dull city. Inaddition to the spiritual exercises, provision was alsomade for physical pastimes. The Social Hall was theusual scene of Mormon festivities, and here onecould see the beauty and fashion of Great SaltLake City en grande tenue. Good amateur actingtook place here, and dancing seemed to be considereda most edifying exercise. The Prophet danced, theapostles danced, the bishops danced, the young and theold danced. There is high authority for perseverancein this practice: David danced, we are told, withall his might; and Scipio, according to Seneca, waswont thus to exercise his heroic limbs. The ballsat the Social Hall were highly select, and conductedon an expensive scale; ten-dollar tickets admittedone lady with one gentleman, and for all extra ladiestwo dollars each had to be paid. Space was limited,and many a Jacob was shorn of his glory by havingto appear with only Rachael in his train, and withouta following of Leahs, Zilpahs, and Bilhahs.

An account of one of these balls might be ofinterest. The hall was tastefully decorated. Atfour o’clock in the afternoon the Prophet entered,and order was called. He ascended a kind of platform,and, with uplifted hands, blessed those present.He then descended to the boards and led off thefirst cotillon. At 8 p.m. supper was served; dancingwas resumed with spirit; and finally the party endedas it began, with prayer and benediction, about fiveo’clock in the morning—​thirteen successive mortalhours. I may mention that, in order to balance anydisparity of the sexes, each gentleman was allowedto lead out two ladies and dance with them, eithertogether or alternately. What an advantage thiswould be in many a London ball-room!

I will now proceed to describe my visit to thePresident, or Prophet, Brigham Young. GovernorCumming had first written to ask if he would giveme the honour of an interview; and, having receiveda gracious reply, I proceeded with him to call uponthe Prophet on August 31st, at 11 a.m., as appointed.We arrived at the house, and, after a slight scrutiny,passed the guard, and, walking down the verandah,entered the Prophet’s private office. Several peoplewho were sitting there rose at Governor Cumming’sentrance. At a few words of introduction, BrighamYoung advanced, shook hands with me, and invitedme to be seated on a sofa on one side of the room,and presented me to those present.

The “President of the Church of Jesus Christ ofLatter Day Saints all over the World” was bornat Whittingham, Vermont, on June 1st, 1801. Hewas, consequently, at the time I saw him, in 1860,fifty-nine years old; he looked about forty-five.I had expected to see a venerable-looking old man;but scarcely a grey thread appeared in his hair, whichwas parted on the side, light-coloured, and ratherthick. His forehead was somewhat narrow, the eyebrowsthin, the eyes between grey and blue, with acalm and somewhat reserved expression. A slightdroop in the left lid made me think he had sufferedfrom paralysis; I afterwards heard it was the resultof a neuralgia, which long tormented him. Thenose, which was fine and somewhat pointed, wasbent a little to the left; the lips were like theNew Englander’s, and the teeth were imperfect. Thecheeks were rather fleshy, the chin somewhat peaked,and face clean-shaven, except under the jaws, wherethe beard was allowed to grow. The hands werewell-made, and the figure was somewhat large andbroad-shouldered.

The Prophet’s dress was neat and plain as aQuaker’s, of grey homespun, except the cravat andwaistcoat. His coat was of antique cut and, likethe pantaloons, baggy, and the buttons were black.A necktie of dark silk, with a large bow, was passedround a starchless collar. He wore a black satinwaistcoat, and plain gold chain. Altogether, theProphet’s appearance was that of a gentleman farmerin New England.

His manner was affable and impressive, anddistinctly unpretentious. He showed no signs ofdogmatism or bigotry, and never once entered,with me at least, on the subject of religion. Heimpressed me with a certain sense of power.It was commonly said there was only one chief inGreat Salt Lake City, and that was “Brigham.”His temper was even, and his manner cold; in fact,like his face, somewhat bloodless. He had greatpowers of observation and judgment of character;if he disliked a stranger at the first interview, henever saw him again. He lived a most temperateand sober life, his favourite food being baked potatoes,with a little buttermilk, and his drink water; hedisapproved, like all strict Mormons, of spirituousliquors, and never touched anything stronger thana glass of lager beer, and never smoked tobacco.His followers deemed him an angel of light, hisfoes a fiend damned; he was, I presume, neitherone nor the other. He has been called a hypocrite,swindler, forger, and murderer; no one looked itless. In fact, he was the St. Paul of the NewDispensation; he gave point, energy, and consistencyto the disjointed and turbulent fanaticism of Mr.Joseph Smith; and if he was not able to create, hewas at least able to control circ*mstances.

Such was His Excellency, President Brigham Young,“painter and glazier”—​his earliest craft—​prophet,revelator, translator, and seer; the man who wasrevered as no king or kaiser, pope or pontiff, everwas; who, like the Old Man of the Mountain, byholding up his hand could cause the death of anyone within his reach; who, governing as well asreigning, long stood up to fight with the sword ofthe Lord, and with his few hundred guerillas, againstthe mighty power of the United States; who outwittedall diplomacy opposed to him; and, finally,made a treaty of peace with the President of thegreat Republic as though he had wielded the combinedpower of France, Russia, and England.

The Prophet’s private office, where he was in thehabit of transacting the greater part of his business,correcting his sermons, and conducting his correspondence,was a plain, neat room, with a largewriting-table and money-safe. I remarked a pistoland rifle hung within easy reach on the right-handwall. There was a look of order which suited thecharacter of the man, and his style of doing businesswas to issue distinct directions to his employés, afterwhich he disliked referring to the subject. He hadthe reputation of being a wealthy man, though hebegan life as a poor one; and, so far as I could see,he had made his money, not by enriching himselfby the tithes and plunder of his followers, but inbusiness and by hard work.

After the first few words of greeting, I interpretedthe Prophet’s look to mean that he would like toknow my object in coming to the City of the Saints.I told him that, having read and heard much aboutUtah as it was said to be, I was anxious to see Utahas it was. He then touched upon agricultural andother subjects; but we carefully avoided anything todo with religion or his domestic peculiarities, onwhich, I was warned, he disliked to be questioned.After talking for about half an hour, the conversationbegan to flag, so we rose up, shook hands allround, as was the custom there, and took our leave.

The first impression left upon my mind, and subsequentlyconfirmed, was that the Prophet was nocommon man, and that he had none of the weaknessand vanity which characterise the common uncommonman. I also remarked the veneration shown to himby his followers, whose affection for him was equalledonly by the confidence with which they entrustedto him their dearest interests in this world and inthe next. After my visit many congratulated me,as would the followers of Tien Wong, or HeavenlyKing, upon having at last seen the most remarkableman in the world.

The Prophet’s block was surrounded by a high walland strengthened with semi-circular buttresses; itconsisted of many houses. The Lion House wasoccupied by Mrs. Young and her family in the easternpart of the square. On the west of it lay the privateoffice, in which we were received, and further westagain was the public office, where the church and otherbusiness was transacted. Beyond this was the BeeHouse, so named from the sculptured bee-hive in frontof it. The Bee House was a large building with longwalls facing east and west. It was tenanted by theProphet’s “plurality wives” and their families, whoeach had a bedroom, sitting-room, and closet, simplyand similarly furnished. There was a Moslem air ofretirement about the Bee House; the face of womanwas rarely seen at the window, and her voice was neverheard without. Anti-Mormons declared the Bee Houseto be like the State prison of Auburn, a self-supportingestablishment, for not even the wives of the Prophetwere allowed to live in idleness.

As I have said before, I was unwilling to add tothose who had annoyed the Prophet by domesticallusions, and have, therefore, no direct knowledge ofthe extent to which he carried his polygamy; someGentiles allowed him seventeen, others thirty-six, wivesout of a household of seventy members, others anindefinite number of wives scattered through thedifferent settlements. Of these, doubtless, many werebut wives by name—​such, for instance, as the wives ofthe late Prophet; and others were married more for thepurpose of building up for themselves spiritual kingdomsthan for the normal purpose of matrimony. Ijudged the Prophet’s progeny to be numerous fromthe following circ*mstance. On one occasion, whenstanding with him on the belvedere, my eye fellupon a new erection; it could be compared externallyto nothing but an English gentleman’s hunting-stables,and I asked him what it was intended for. “Aprivate school for my children,” he replied, “directedby Brother Kelsey.”

The following Sunday I attended a Mormon service.I passed the morning in the painful but appropriateexercise of reading the books of Mormon and ofMoroni the prophet. Some people had told me thatit was the best imitation of the Old Testament existing;to me it seemed to emulate the sprightliness ofLeviticus. Surely there never was a book so dull andheavy; it was as monotonous as a sage prairie. InMormonism it holds the same place as the Bible inthe more ignorant Roman Catholic countries, wherereligious reading is chiefly restricted to the Breviary,tales of miracles, of saints, and so forth. It wasstrictly proper, and did not contain a word aboutmaterialism and polygamy.

The early part of the morning passed. At9.45 a.m. we entered “the Bowery”; it wasadvisable to go early to get seats within hearing.This place was a kind of “hangar,” about onehundred feet long by the same breadth, with aroofing of bushes and boughs supported by roughposts, and open for ventilation on the sides; itcontained about three thousand souls. The congregationwas accommodated upon long rows of benches,opposite the dais, or tribune, which looked like along lane of boarding open to the north, where itfaced the audience, and entered by steps from theeast. Between the people and the platform was theorchestra—​a violin, a bass, two women, and fourmen performers—​who sang the sweet songs of Ziontolerably well.

We took our seats on the benches, where we couldsee the congregation flocking in, a proceeding whichwas not over for half an hour. The people were allin their Sunday best, and many a pretty face peepedout from the sun-bonnet, though the “mushroom” andthe “pork-pie” had found their way over the plains,and trim figures were clad in neat dresses, sometimeswith a little faded finery. The men were decentlyattired; but the weather being hot, many of them hadleft their coats at home, and had come in their shirtsleeves. The custom, however, looked natural, andthere was no want of cleanliness, such as sometimeslurks behind the bulwark of buttons. The eldersand dignitaries on the platform affected coats of blackbroadcloth. All wore their hats till the address began,then all uncovered. The number of old peopleastonished me; half a dozen were sitting on the samebench: these broken-down men and decrepit croneshad come to lay their bones in the Holy City.

At 10 a.m. the meeting opened with a spiritualsong, and then a civilised-looking man, being calledupon by the presiding Elder for the day, offered upprayer. The matter was good, but somewhat commonplace.The conclusion was an “Amen,” in whichall hands joined. It reminded me of the historicalpractice of “humming” in the seventeenth century.

Next arose Bishop Abraham O. Smoot, secondMayor of Zion, who began with “Brethring,” andproceeded in a Methody tone of voice to praise thesaints and pitch into the apostates. He made anundue use of the regular Wesleyan organ—​the nose;but he appeared to speak excellent sense in execrableEnglish. As he was in the midst of an allusion tothe President, Brigham Young entered, and all turnedtheir faces, even the old lady who was sleepingthrough the discourse.

The Prophet was dressed as usual in grey homespunand home-woven; he wore, like most of the elders,a tall, steeple-crowned straw hat, with a broad blackribbon, and he had the gentility of black kid gloves.He entered the tribune covered, and sat down. Aman in a fit was carried out pumpwards. BishopSmoot concluded with informing us that we shouldlive for God. Another hymn was sung. Then agreat silence, which told us that something was aboutto happen: that old man held his cough; that oldlady awoke with a start; that child ceased to squall.President Brigham Young removed his hat, advancedto the end of the tribune, expectorated into thespittoon, restored the balance of fluid by a glass ofwater from a decanter on a stand, and, leaning slightlyforwards with both hands propped on the green baizeof the tribune, addressed his followers.

The discourse began slowly, word crept titubantlyafter word, and the opening phrases were scarcelyaudible; but as the orator warmed, his voice rosehigh and sonorous, and a fluency so remarkablesucceeded hesitation that the latter seemed to havebeen a work of art. The gestures were easy androunded, except one of raising and shaking the forefinger,which struck me as threatening and bullying.The address was long. Mormonism was a greatfact. Religion had made him, Brigham Young, thehappiest of men. He was ready to dance like aShaker. At this the Prophet, who was a good mimicand had much of humour, raised his right arm, andgave, to the amusem*nt of the congregation, a drollimitation of the Shakers. A great deal of whatfollowed contained topical allusions. The Saints hada glorious destiny before them, and their moralitywas remarkable as the beauty of the Promised Land.The soft breeze blowing over the Bowery, and theglorious sunshine outside, made the allusion highlyappropriate. After a somewhat lengthy string ofsentences concerning the great tribulation coming onearth—​it had been coming for the last eighteenhundred years—​he concluded with good wishes tovisitors and Gentiles generally, with a solemn blessingupon the President of the United States, theterritorial Governor, and all that be in authority overus, and with an “Amen” which was loudly re-echoedby all around, he restored his hat and resumedhis seat.

Then arose Mr. Heber C. Kimball, the secondPresident. He was the model of a Methodist, a tall,powerful man, with dark, piercing eyes and clean-shaven,blue face. He affected the Boanerges style,from a certain dislike to the Nonconformist rant andwhine, and his manner of speech savoured rather offamiliarity than of reverence. Several of his remarkswere loudly laughed at by the congregation. Hisstyle of oratory was certainly startling; he remindedme of Luther’s description of Tetzel’s sermon, inwhich he used to shout the words “Bring! bring!bring!” with such a horrible bellowing that onewould have said it was a mad bull rushing on thepeople and goring them with its horns.

After this worthy’s address, a list of names forwhom letters were lying unclaimed was called fromthe platform. A missionary adjourned the meetingtill two o’clock, delivered the prayer of dismissal,during which all stood up, and ended with theBenediction and “Amen.” The Sacrament was notadministered on this occasion. It was often given,and reduced to the very elements of a ceremony; evenwater was used instead of wine, because the latter is ofGentile manufacture. Two elders walked up and downthe rows, one carrying a pitcher, the other a plate ofbroken bread, and each Saint partook of both.

That same evening when dining out, I had alesson in Mormon modesty. The mistress of thehouse, a Gentile but not an anti-Mormon, wasrequested by a saintly visitor, who was also a widow,to instruct me that on no account I must proposeto see her home. “Mormon ladies,” said my kind informant,“are very strict”; “Unnecessarily so on thisoccasion,” I could not help adding. Something similaroccurred on another occasion: a very old lady, wishingto return home, surreptitiously left the room andsidled out of the garden gate, and my companion,an officer from Camp Floyd, at once recognised theobject of the retreat—​viz. to avoid our possible escort.I afterwards learned at dinner and elsewhere amongstthe Mormons to abjure the Gentile practice of givingprecedence to the fair sex. The lesson, however, wasnot new; I had been taught the same, in times past,amongst certain German missionaries, who assumedprecedence over their wives upon a principle borrowedfrom St. Paul.

There was a certain monotony of life in Great SaltLake City, a sameness from day to day, which doesnot render the subject favourable for a lively description;moreover, the Moslem gloom, the result ofaustere morals and manner, of the semi-seclusion ofthe sexes, and, in my case, the reserve arising towardsa stranger who appeared in the train of Federalofficials, hung over society. We rose early, andbreakfasted at any hour between 6 and 9 a.m. Thenensued “business,” which seemed to consist principallyof correcting one’s teeth and a walk about thetown, with an occasional liquor up. Dinner was at1 p.m., announced not by the normal gong of EasternStates, but by a most discordant hand-bell. Jostlinginto the long room of the ordinary, we took ourseats, and, seizing our forks, proceeded at once toaction. Nothing but water was drunk at dinner,except when a gentleman preferred to wash downroast pork with a tumbler of milk. Wine in thispart of the world was dear and bad, and even if theSaints made their own, it could scarcely be cheap, onaccount of the price of labour. The feeding endedwith a glass of liquor, not at the bar, because therewas none, but in the privacy of one’s own chamber,which takes from drinking half its charms. Mostof the well-to-do men found time for a siesta in theafternoon. There was supper at 6 p.m., and theevening was quietly spent with a friend.

To describe Great Salt Lake City in those dayswithout some account of polygamy would be likeseeing Hamlet with the part of the Prince ofDenmark omitted. It is, I suppose, therefore necessaryto supply a popular view of the peculiar institutionwhich at once was the bane and the blessing ofMormonism—​plurality. I approach the subject witha feeling of despair, so conflicting are opinions concerningit, and so difficult is it to naturalise in Europethe customs of Asia, Africa, and America, andreconcile the habits of the nineteenth century A.D.with those of 1900 B.C. A return to the patriarchalages must necessarily have its disadvantages.

I found that the marriage ceremony was performedin the Temple, or, if that was impossible, in Mr.Brigham Young’s office, properly speaking, by theProphet, who, however, could depute any followerto act for him. When mutual consent was given,the parties were pronounced man and wife in the nameof Jesus Christ; prayers followed, and there was apatriarchal feast of joy in the evening.

The first wife, as amongst polygamists generally,was the wife, and assumed the husband’s name andtitle. Her plurality partners were called sisters, suchas Sister Anne, or Sister Maria, and were the “aunts”of her children. The first wife was married fortime, the others were sealed for eternity. Girls rarelyremained single past sixteen (in England the averagemarrying age is thirty), and they would have beenthe pity of the community if they had been doomedto a waste of youth so unnatural.

Divorce was rarely obtained by the man, who wasashamed to own that he could not keep his housein order. Some, such as the President, would grantit only in the case of adultery; and here I may saythe two mortal sins in Mormonism are (1) adultery,and (2) shedding innocent blood. Wives, however,were allowed to claim it for cruelty, desertion, or neglect.Mormon women married to Gentiles were cut off fromthe society of the Saints, and without uncharitablenessmen suspected a sound previous reason. The widowsof the Prophet were married to his successor, asDavid took unto himself the wives of Saul; beinggenerally aged, they occupied the position of matronrather than wife, and the same was the case wherea man espoused a mother and her daughter.

There were rules and regulations of Mormonism.All sensuality in the married state was strictlyforbidden beyond that necessary to procure progeny—​thepractice, in fact, of Adam and Abraham.

It is not necessary to go into the argumentswhich are adduced by the Mormons in favour ofpolygamy, nor to recount the arguments on theother side. I content myself here with stating factsas I saw them. It will be asked, What view did thesofter sex take of this state of affairs? A few, mostlyfrom the Old Country, lamented that Mr. JosephSmith ever asked of the Creator that question whichwas answered in the affirmative. A very few, likethe Curia Electa, Emma, the first wife of Mr. JosephSmith—​who said of her, by-the-bye, that she couldnot be contented in Heaven without rule—​apostatised,and became Mrs. Brideman. But most of the womenwere even more in favour of polygamy than the men.For this attachment of the women of the Saintsto the doctrine of plurality I found two reasons.The Mormon prophets expended all their arts uponthis end, well knowing that without the heartyco-operation of mothers and wives, sisters anddaughters, their institution could not exist long.They bribed them with promises of Paradise, theysubjugated them with threats of annihilation. Withthem, once a Mormon always a Mormon. Theapostate Mormon was looked upon by other peopleas a scamp and a knave, and as regards a woman,she was looked upon as worse than a prostitute.The Mormon household has been described by itsenemies as a hell of hatred, envy, and malice; thesame has been said of the Moslem harem; both, Ibelieve, suffer from the assertions of prejudice orignorance.

Another curious effect may be noticed. When aman had four or five wives, with reasonable familiesby each, he was fixed for life; his interests, if nothis affections, bound him irrevocably to his NewFaith. But the bachelor, as well as the monogamicyouth, was prone to backsliding and apostacy. This,when I was at Great Salt Lake City, was apparentlyso common that many of the new Saints formed amere floating population. But without expressingany further opinions (those I have given so far aremerely the opinions of others), I may say that theresult of my investigations was to prove that GreatSalt Lake City had been wonderfully successful inits colonisation. Physically speaking, there was nocomparison between the Saints and the class fromwhich they were mostly taken, and, in point of viewof mere morality, the Mormon community was perhapspurer than any other of equal numbers.

About the middle of September the time for mydeparture drew nigh. I prepared for difficulties byhaving my hair “shingled off,” till my head somewhatresembled a pointer’s dorsum, and deeply regrettedhaving left all my wigs behind me. We laid in agood store of provisions, not forgetting an allowanceof whiskey and schnapps.

My last evening was spent in the genial companyof a few friends. I thanked Governor Cumming forhis generous hospitality, and made my acknowledgmentsto the courtesy of his amiable wife. Myadieux were on an extensive scale, and the next day,September 19th, in the morning, I left Great SaltLake City, en route for the South.

The day was fine and wondrous clear, affording asplendid back view of the Happy Valley before itwas finally shut out from sight, and the Utah Lakelooked a very gem of beauty, a diamond in its settingof steelly blue mountains. It was with a feeling ofreal regret that I bade adieu to the City of the Saints.

A MISSION TO DAHOMÉ
1863

A MISSION TO DAHOMÉ

1863

IT is a long stride from Salt Lake City toDahomé, from the Mormons to the Amazons,but I take my visit to the King of Dahomé asnext in date. Before, however, beginning myjourney to Dahomé let me touch briefly on thatmuch-vexed and little-understood subject—​thenegro.

Central Intertropical Africa, lying between northlatitude 10° and south latitude 20°, at that timecontained eight considerable negro circles, which maybe called kingdoms. Of these there were three onthe west coast north of the Equator, namely:

1st. Ashanti, the land which exports the “Minas”negroes. This despotism has been well known tous since the beginning of the present century. Thecapital is Kumasi, nearly 133 direct miles from thecoast. This empire may be said to rest on two pillars,blood and gold. Human sacrifice was excessive,and the “customs” mean the slaughter of fellow-creatures.

2nd. Benin, a kingdom well known to old travellers,and the place where Belzoni of the Pyramids died.I visited it in August, 1862, and my reception wasthe crucifixion of a negro. On the night after myarrival a second slave was slain and placed beforemy doorway. My lodgings commanded a view ofthe principal square, which was strewn with humanbones, green and white.

3rd. Dahomé. From the plain and unvarnishedaccount of this tyranny, which I am about to relate,may be estimated the amount of hopeless misery whichawaited the African in Africa. And as it is unsatisfactoryto point out a disease without suggesting aremedy, I will propose my panacea at the end ofthis essay.

We now cross the Equator and find ourselvesamong the great South African family. Theircommon origin is proved by their speech. Brieflyto characterise their language, the place of our gendersare taken by personal and impersonal forms, and allchanges of words are made at the beginning, not, aswith us, at the end. The Kaffir (Caffre race in South-eastAfrica) is evidently a mixed breed, and it hasnearly annihilated the Bushmen and the Hottentots—​theoriginal lords of the land. There is a curiousresemblance between the Coptic, or Old Egyptian, andthe Hottentot tongues, which suggests that in theprehistoric ages one language extended from theNile Valley to the Cape of Good Hope. The truenegroes, distinguished by their long, ape-like head andprojecting jaws, bowed shins and elongated heels andforearms, are all the tribes of Intertropical Africawhose blood is unmixed. This is my definition; butof this point opinions differ.

And here we may stand to view the gleam of lightwhich the future casts across the Dark Continent.Slowly but surely the wave of Moslem conquest rollsdown towards the line. Every Moslem is a propagandist,and their traders, unlike ours, carry conversionwith them. This fact European missionaries deny,because they do not like it: they would rather preachto heathens than to Moslems, whom Locke describesas unorthodox Christians. They even deny thesuperiority of El Islam, which forbids the paganabominations of child-murder, human sacrifice, witch-burning,ordeal-poisons, and horrors innumerable.But we, who look forward to the advent of ahigher law, of a nobler humanity, hail with infinitepleasure every sign of progress.

Philanthropists, whose heads are sometimes softerthan their hearts, have summed up their opinionof slavery as the “sum of all villainies.” I look uponit as an evil, to the slaveholder even more than tothe slave, but a necessary evil, or, rather, a conditionof things essentially connected, like polygamy, withthe progress of human society, especially in the tropics.The savage hunting tribes slave for themselves;they are at the bottom of the ladder. Advancing toagricultural and settled life, man must have assistants,hands, slaves. As population increases, commercedevelops itself and free labour fills the markets; theslave and the serf are emancipated: they have donetheir task; they disappear from the community, nevermore to return. Hence every nation, Hindu andHebrew, English and French, have had slaves; allrose to their present state of civilisation by the “sumof all villainies.” And here, when owning slavery tobe an evil, I must guard against being misunderstood.It is an evil to the white man: it is often an incalculableboon to the black. In the case of thenegro it is life, it is comfort, it is civilisation; inthe case of the white it has done evil by retardingprogress, by demoralising society, and by givingrise to a mixed race.

And there is yet another point to be settled whenspeaking of the negro. In the United States everyblack man is a negro, or, to speak politely, a “cullardpussun.” Thus the noble races of Northern Africaand the half-Arab Moors, the Nubians and Abyssinians,and the fine Kaffir (Caffre) type of South-eastern Africaare confounded with the anthropoid of Sierra Leone,of the Guinea and of the Congo regions. Thefamilies first mentioned differ more from the truenegro than they do from the white man.

My first visit to Gelele, then King of Dahomé,was in May and June, 1863. Already in 1861 I hadproposed to restore those amicable relations whichwe had with his father Gezo; but my applicationwas not accepted by the Government. On my returnto the West African coast after a six weeks’ visitto England, the journey was made on my ownresponsibility, and it was not pleasant. I was alone—​insuch matters negroes do not count as men—​andfour mortal days upon the Slave Coast lagoons, salt,miry rivers, rich only in mud, miasma, and mosquitoes,with drenching rains and burning suns playing upona cramping canoe without awning, are unsatisfactoryeven to remember. Having reached Whydah, theseaport and slave-market of Dahomé, I procureda hammock, and in three days I arrived at Kana, asummer residency for the Court, distant 7,500 milesfrom Agbomé, the capital.

The human sacrifices called the “nago customs”had lately ended. Twelve men had lost their lives,and, dressed in various attire like reapers, dancers,and musicians, had been exposed on tall scaffoldsof strong scantling. “C’est se moquer de l’humanité,”remarked to me the Principal of the French Missionat Whydah. But the corpses had been removed, andduring my flying visit of five days nothing offensivewas witnessed.

At Kana I met M. Jules Gerard, first “le chasseur,”then “le tueur des lions”: we had sailed togetherfrom Europe to Madeira, and he had been sea-sickduring the whole voyage. Men who have spenttheir youth in the excitement of dangerous sportoften lose their nerve in middle age. This was thecase with the unfortunate lion-hunter; the sight of the“customs” threw him into a fever. Disappointmentalso weighed upon his spirits. He came to WestAfrica in the hope that his fame as a killer of lionshad preceded him; but the only lion that can existin that mouldy climate is the British lion, and evenhe is not a terrible beast to bring amongst the ladies.He expected to find Dahomé a kind of Algiers, andhe exchanged a good for a very bad country. Hehad set his mind upon crossing the northern frontier;but the king at once put an end to that plan, andafterwards played me the same trick. He had alsobased his hopes upon his good shooting and uponan explosive bullet calculated to do great execution;but many of the king’s women guards could usetheir guns better than he did, and when the said shellwas produced, Gelele sent to his stores and broughtout a box-full.

M. Gerard proposed to himself a journey whichwould have severely tried the health of the strongestman in Europe. He resolved to make his way fromthe Gulf of Guinea through dangerous Timbuktu(Timbuctos) and the terrible Sahara to Algiers. Iadvised him to retire to Teneriffe or Madeira andrecruit his energies. But he was game to the last.He made another departure through the malariousSherbro country, south of pestilential Sierra Leone.The next thing we heard of him was when crossingthe Jong River he had been drowned by the upsettingof a canoe. Somewhat later came the report thathe had been foully murdered. I was rejoiced to hearthat a subscription had been raised for his aged andbereaved mother.

Having reported that Dahomé was, under normalcirc*mstances, as safe as most parts of Africa, I receivedin August, 1863, orders to visit it as Commissioner.My “mission” was to make certain presents to theking, and to preach up cotton and palm oil versuswar and human sacrifices. I may begin by saying Ilectured hard and talked to the wind.

H.M.’s cruiser Antelope landed me at Whydahin December, the dry season, and the surf was notparticularly dangerous. The beach is open; betweenit and Brazil rolls the broad Atlantic; and near theshore are an outer and inner sandbar with an intervalforming a fine breeding-ground for sharks. A girlis occasionally thrown in as an offering to “Hu,” thesea-dog, and this does not diminish the evil.

We entered Whydah in state, paraded and surroundedby chiefs and soldiery in war dress, kiltsand silver horns like the giraffe’s: their arms werelong guns and short swords for decapitating thewounded. Each troop had its flag, its umbrella,its band of drums and tom-toms, its horns andcymbals. I especially remarked a gourd bottle fullof, and covered with, cowries, or pebbles—​in fact thecelebrated “maraca” of Brazil, which, it has beenconjectured, contributed towards the formation ofthe word America. Every five minutes the warriorshalted to drink and dance. The drink is easilydescribed—​tafia or bad caxaca. But the dance! Idefy mortal man to paint it in words. Let me brieflysay that the arms are held up as though the ownerwere running, the elbows being jerked so as nearlyto meet behind the back; the hands paddle like thepaws of a swimming dog; the feet shuffle and stampas though treading water; the body-trunk joins inthe play, and the hips move backwards and forwardsto the beating time. The jig and the hornpipe arerepose compared with this performance. There isalso a decapitation dance over an ideal dead enemy,whose head is duly sawn off with the edge of the hand.

At Whydah I lodged at the English fort, alarge double-storied building of “taipa,” tenanted byWesleyan missionaries. It was once a strong place,as the ruined towers and burst guns show.

There were three other forts in the town. TheBrazilian, which was nearest the sea, was held byChico de Souza, the son of the late Francisco Fellis deSouza. This was a remarkable man. Born at Cachoeira,near Bahia, he emigrated to Africa, where by courageand conduct he became the Chacha, or Governor, ofthe Guild of Merchants, a kind of Board of Trade.He made an enormous fortune, and by his manywives he left about a hundred olive branches.Though a slave-dealer, he was a man of honourand honesty. The English had done him many aninjury, yet he was invariably courteous and hospitableto every English traveller. He strongly opposedhuman sacrifice, and he saved many lives by curiouscontrivances. Of the same stamp was M. DomingosMartins of Bahia, once celebrated for enormouswealth. He died in the interval between my firstand second visits. I regretted his death, for hehad been most kind and attentive to me.

The Portuguese fort had also been repaired, andwas inhabited by six members of the Lyons Mission,“Le Vicariate Apostolique de Dahomé.” They kept aschool, and they were apparently convinced that itwas hopeless to attempt the conversion of adults.The superior, Father François Borghero, had severaltimes been ill-treated by the barbarians, and his hatredof idolatry had exposed him to not a little danger. Itis rare in those lands to find a highly educated andthoroughly gentlemanly man; and, looking back, I amnot surprised that all my time not occupied by studyor observation was spent in the Portuguese fort.

Lastly, there was the French fort, in far better conditionthan the others. It was held in my time by M.Marius Daumas, agent to M. Regis (aîné) of Marseilles,and faute de mieux he was buying and shipping palmoil.

Whydah was easily seen. The houses were red“taipa” with thick thatch, and each had its large andslovenly courtyard. The market-place was a longstreet of small booths open to the front, whereeverything from a needle to a moleque (small slave-boy)could be bought. The thoroughfares werestudded with small round roofs of grass, whichsheltered a hideous deity called Legba. He was madeof muddy clay, with holes for eyes and cowries forteeth, and he squatted before a pot in which thefaithful placed provisions, which were devoured by theurubu (vulture). The chief temple was dedicated tothe danh, or snake, which here was the principal“fetish.” It was a circular hut with two doorlessentrances, and the venerated boas curled themselvescomfortably on the thickness of the walls. Thelargest was about six feet long, and it was dangerousonly to rats, of which it was very fond. Severalforeigners had been killed for injuring these reptiles,and Whydah, once an independent kingdom, losther liberty through the snakes. When attacked byDahomé in 1729, her chief defence was to place aserpent on the invaders’ path. The Dahomanskilled the guardian genius and slaughtered theWhydahs till the streets ran blood. But, whenthe conquerors had reduced their neighbour, theygave her leave to adore the snake, and Whydah feltconsoled, even happy. It sounds like a traveller’stale. I am writing history.

At Whydah we complied with the custom ofsending up a messenger to report our arrival. Afterthree days came three officials from the palace, whopresented their sticks and delivered to me a verbalinvitation from their master. The sticks were whitesticks, two feet long, adorned with plates of silver,cut into the shapes of lions, sharks, crocodiles, andother savage beasts. These batons served as visitingcards, and were signs of dignity. When the kingmade me honorary commandant of a corps of life-guardswomen,he sent me two sticks by way ofcommission or diploma.

We set out en route for the capital on December13th, 1863. My little party consisted of Mr. GeorgeCruikshank, a naval assistant-surgeon detached toaccompany me; the Rev. Mr. Bernasco, Wesleyanmissionary and private friend of the king; two negrointerpreters, thirty hammock men, and a troop ofbaggage porters. This made up a total of ninety-ninemouths, which were never idle except when asleep.

Between the seaboard and Kana, the “villegiatura,”or country capital, of the king, there were fifty-twoto fifty-three direct miles. The country was here acampo, or rolling grassy prairie: there was a denseand magnificent forest. At every few miles therewere settlements, now villages, once capitals whichfelt the weight of the Dahomé arm. The first wasSavé, ancient metropolis of the Whydah kingdom,when the present Whydah, which was properly Gle-hwe,or the Garden House, was only a squalid port. Theterritory was only thirty miles by seven, but it mustered200,000 fighting men. This, however, was easilyexplained. In Africa every male between the agesof seventeen and fifty carried arms: this would beabout one-fifth of the population; consequently therewas one million inhabitants in an area of twohundred square miles (4,762 souls to each mile).

After Savé came Tevé, also an ex-capital. It wasa pretty little village commanded by a Dahoman“caboceer.” This frequently used word is a corruptionof a Portuguese corruption, “caboceer,” or, rather,“caboceira,” and means a pillow, a headman, ora chief officer. The etiquette on arriving at suchplaces is as follows. You alight from your hammockbefore the tree under which the grandee and hisparty are drawn up to receive you with vociferousshouts, with singing, drumming, and dancing. Afterthe first greetings you pledge him in fresh water,which he has tasted before you. Then you drinkspirits and receive an offering of provisions. Youmake a return of rum and gin, the people drum,dance, sing, and shout their thanks, and you areat liberty to proceed.

On the fourth day we crossed the “Agrime Swamp,”which is hardly practicable in the wet season. Theroad then entered upon a true continent: we emergedfrom the false coast, which at one time was underwater, and which is raised by secular upheaval. Atthe little town of Agrime we were delayed till theking, who was in his country capital, sent an escortand permission to advance.

On Friday, December 18th, we entered Kana, alarge and scattered town, shaded by magnificent trees.It is about two hundred and seventy feet above sea-level,and the climate is a relief after Whydah. Themorrow was fixed for our reception. It was EmberDay, and the date could hardly have been betterchosen.

It is hardly possible to form an idea of the peineforte et dure attending the presentation in Africa.It is every negro’s object to keep the white manwaiting as long as possible, and the visitor mustbe very firm and angry if he would not lose all histime.

We were duly warned to be ready at 10 a.m.;but local knowledge kept me in the house till1 p.m. Then we sat under a tree upon thechairs which we had brought from Whydah, towitness the procession of “caboceers.” Each grandee,preceded by his flag or flags, his band of drumsand rattles, and his armed retainers dancing andsinging, passed before us, shaded by an enormousumbrella of many colours. Having marched round,he came up to us and snapped fingers (the localstyle of shaking hands); then he drank with us threetoasts, beginning with his master’s health. After the“caboceers” trooped various companies—​musicians,eunuchs, and jesters. The last are buffoons, remindingone of our feudal days. Their entertainmentconsists in “making faces” (cara feia), as childrensay—​wrinkling the forehead, protruding the tongue,and clapping the jaws as apes do. They can tumblea little and “throw the cart wheel” neatly; theydance in a caricatured style, draw in the stomachto show that they are hungry, pretend to be deafand dumb, smoke a bone by way of a pipe, andimitate my writing by scratching a sweet potato witha stick.

The review over, we made for the palace in along procession; my men, wearing bright red capsand waist-cloths, carried the flag of St. George. Theroyal abodes are all on the same pattern: enclosuresof “taipa” wall, four courses high, and pierced witheight or ten gates. The irregular square or oblongmay be half a mile in circumference. At the principalentrances are thatched sheds like verandahs, onehundred feet long by fourteen to fifteen feet deep.The roof ledge rises sixty to seventy feet high,enough for two stories, whilst the eaves of thick andsolidly packed straw rested upon posts barely fourfeet tall. The inner buildings, as far as they couldbe seen, corresponded with the external, and the kingheld his levées in one of these barn-like sheds. Theroyal sleeping-places, which were often changed, weredescribed to me as neat rooms, divided from the courtyardby a wall with a chevaux de frise of humanjawbones. The floors were paved with the skullsof conquered chiefs, forming a descente de lit uponwhich Gelele had the daily pleasure of trampling.

The complicated reception was typical of theDahoman military empire. We found, ranged ina line outside the gate, twenty-four umbrellas orbrigades belonging to the highest male dignitaries.The army, or, what was here synonymous, theCourt, was divided into two portions, male andfemale, or, rather, female and male, as the womentroops took precedence. They occupied the insideof the palace, and they were the king’s bodyguardin peace or war. Each line had a right anda left wing, so called from their position relativeto the throne. The former, which is the senior, wascommanded by the “min-gau” who cumulatedthe offices of premier and head executioner. Hislieutenant was the adanejan. Dahoman officials, forbetter espionage, were always in pairs. The generalof the left wing was the “meu,” who collected revenueand tribute, declared war, and had charge of allstrangers. His alter ego was styled the ben-wan-ton.Under these great men were smaller great men, andall were de facto as well as de jure slaves to theking.

Presently we were summoned to enter the palace.We closed our umbrellas by order, walked hurriedlyacross a large yard, and halted at a circle of whitesand spread upon the clayey ground. Here webowed to a figure sitting under the shady thatch;and he returned, we were told, the compliment.The chief ministers who accompanied us fell flatupon the sand, kissed it, rolled in it, and threw itby handfuls over their heads and robes of satinand velvet. The ceremony is repeated at everypossible opportunity; and when the king drinks, allthe subjects turn their backs upon him and shout.

Then we advanced to the clay bench upon whichKing Gelele sat. After the usual quadruple bowsand hand-wavings, he stood up, tucked in his toga,descended to the ground, and, aided by nimble femininefingers, donned his sandals. He then greeted mewith sundry vigorous wrings à la John Bull, andinquired after Queen Victoria, the Ministry, andthe people of England, which country is supposedto be like Dahomé, but a little larger and richer.

Our chairs were then placed before the seat, towhich he returned, and we drank the normal threetoasts to his health. On these occasions it is notnecessary to empty the glass, which may be handedto an attendant. Salutes having been fired, weretired a hundred feet from the presence and satunder giant umbrellas.

Gelele was then about forty-five years old, upwardsof six feet high, olive complexioned, athletic andwell made, with clear signs of African blood. Hisdress was simple to excess: a loose shirt of plainwhite stuff edged with green silk, a small smoking-cap,a few iron rings on his arms, and a human toothstrung round his neck. The only splendour wasin his gold and scarlet sandals, here distinctive ofroyalty. They were studded with crosses, also royalemblems. He called himself a Christian, and he wasa Moslem as well: like all barbarians, he would ratherbelieve too much than too little, and he would givehimself every chance in both worlds.

Under the thatch behind the king were his wives,known by their handsome dresses, silver hair studs,and the absence of weapons. They atoned for wantof beauty by excessive devotion to their lord, whoapparently did everything by proxy except smoke hislong-stemmed clay pipe.

The inner court of the palace reflected the outer,and the women sat in the sun along the external wallof the royal shed with their musket-barrels bristlingupwards. The right wing was commanded by a“premieress,” who executed all women; the leftwas also under the she “meu.” A semicircle ofbamboos lying on the ground separated the sexes atlevées. The instrument of communication was awoman-messenger, who, walking up to the bamboos,delivered her message on all fours to the “meu.”The latter proclaimed it to the many.

I must here say a few words about the Amazons,or fighting women. The corps was a favourite withthe late king, who thus checked the turbulence andtreachery of his male subjects. The number wasestimated at 10,000 to 12,000; I do not believe itexceeded 2,500. They were divided into blunderbuss-women,elephant-hunters, beheaders, who carry razorsfour feet long, and the line armed with muskets andshort swords.

All the Amazons were ex-officio royal wives, and thefirst person who made the king a father was one ofhis soldieresses. It was high treason to touch themeven accidentally; they lodged in the palace, and whenthey went abroad all men, even strangers, had to clearoff the road. Gelele often made his visitors honorarycommandants of his guard of Amazons (I was madeone); but this did not entitle them to inspectcompanies.

Such a régime makes the Amazons, as might beexpected, intolerably fierce. Their sole object in lifeis blood-spilling and head-snatching. They pridethemselves upon not being men, and with reason.The soldiers blink and shrink when they fire theirguns; the soldieresses do not. The men run away;the women fight to the bitter end. In the lastattack on the city of Abokuta (March 15th, 1864)several of the Amazons of my own regiment scaledthe walls; their brethren-in-arms hardly attemptedthe feat.

Dahomé thus presented the anomaly of an Africankingdom in which women took precedence of men.Hence every employé of Government had to choose a“mother”—​that is to say, some elderly Amazon officerwho would look after his interests at headquarters.Often he had two, an “old mother,” dating from thedays of the late king, and a “young mother,” belongingto the actual reign. He had to pay them well, or hisaffairs were inevitably bad. Thus there was also aBrazilian, an English, and a French “mother”; andvisitors of those nations were expected to propitiatetheir fond and unpleasant parents with presents ofcloth, jewelry, perfumes, and so forth.

The levée ended with a kind of parade. A fewsimple manœuvres and many furious decapitationdances were performed by a select company of theyoung Amazons. They were decently dressed inlong sleeveless waistcoats, petticoats of various colouredcottons, secured at the waist by a sash and extendingto the ankles, whilst narrow fillets of ribbon securedtheir hair and denoted their corps. Their arms weremuskets and short swords, and all had belts, bulletbags, and cartridge boxes.

When the sun set a bottle of rum was sent tous. At this hint we rose and prepared to retire.Gelele again descended from his seat and accompaniedus to the gate, preceded by a buzzing swarm ofcourtiers, who smoothed every inch of ground forthe royal foot. He finally shook hands with us,and promised to meet us in a few days at Agbomé,the capital.

We lost no time in setting out for Agbomé, andwere surprised to find an excellent carriage road, broadand smooth, between the two cities. Agbomé hadno hotels, but we managed lodgings at the house ofthe bukono, a high officer who was doctor and wizardto the Court and curator of strangers, whom he fleecedpitilessly.

I will now touch briefly on the ill-famed “customs”of Dahomé. The word is taken from the Portuguesecostume, and here means the royal sacrifices. Manytravellers have witnessed them, but no one hasattempted to inquire into their origin. I attributethese murderous customs not to love of bloodshed,but simply to filial piety.

The Dahoman, like the ancient Egyptian, holdsthis world to be his temporary lodging. His ownhome is Ku-to-men, or Deadman’s Land. It is nota place of rewards and punishments, but a Hadesfor ghosts, a region of shades, where the king willrule for ever and where the slave will always serve.The idea is ever present to the popular mind. When,for instance, sunshine accompanies rain the Dahomansays the spirits are marketing. In Brazil the fox ismarrying; in England the devil is beating his wife.

A deceased king cannot, therefore, be sent to Ku-to-menas a common negro. At his interment a smallcourt must be slain—​leopard-wives (that is to say,young and handsome wives), old wives, ministers,friends, soldiers, musicians, men and women. Theseare the grand customs, which may average onethousand to two thousand deaths. The annual customs,which we were now to witness, reinforce the ghostlycourt, and number from eighty to one hundred head.

But destruction of life does not end here. Allnovelties, such as the arrival of an officer in uniform,must be reported to the dead by the living king. Acaptive or a criminal is summoned, and the messageis given to him. He is made to swallow a bottleof rum, whose object is to keep him in a goodhumour, and his head is then and there struck off.Only on one occasion did the patient object to thejourney, saying that he did not know the road toKu-to-men. “You shall soon find it out!” criedthe king, who at once decapitated the wretch withoutrum. If any portion of the message be forgotten,another victim must be despatched with it. A hard-heartedtraveller calls this the postscript.

A Dahoman king neglecting these funeral riteswould have been looked upon as the most impiousof men, and a powerful priesthood would soon havesent him to Ku-to-men on his own account. Itmay now be understood how hopeless was my mission.It may be compared, without disrespect, to memorialisingthe Vatican against masses for the dead. The king’ssole and necessary answer was non possumus.

The “customs” began on December 28th, 1863,and ended on January 25th, 1864. They were oftwo kinds. The first was performed by Gelele, kingof the city; the second are in the name of Addo-Kpon,ruler of the “bush,” or country—​also Gelele. Theruler of Dahomé was thus double, two persons in one,and each had his separate palace and property, mothersand ministers, Amazons, officers, and soldiers. Ihave conjectured that the reason of this strangeorganisation is that the “bush-king” may buy andsell, which the “city-king” holds to be below hisdignity.

The description of a single “custom” will suffice.About midday of December 28th, when summonedto the palace, we passed through the market-place,and we found the victim-shed finished and furnished.This building was a long, wall-less barn one hundredfeet long, the roof was a thatch covered with astriped cloth on a blood-red ground and supportedby tree trunks. On the west was a two-storied tower,sixty feet high, with four posts in front of eachfloor. There were on this occasion twenty victimssitting on stools, each before his post, with his armsaround it and his wrists lashed together outside it.The confinement was not cruel; each had a slaveto flap away the flies, all were fed four times a day,and they were released at night. The dress was along white nightcap and a calico shirt with blue andcrimson patches and bindings. A white man wouldhave tried to escape; these negroes are led likeblack sheep to the slaughter. They marked timeas the bands played, and they chatted together,apparently quizzing us. I may here remark thatat my request the king released half of these men,and that not one of them took the trouble to thankme or to beg alms from me.

Hardly were we seated when Gelele, protected bya gorgeous canopy umbrella, came forth from thepalace with Amazons and courtiers in a dense, darkstream. Having visited his fetish gods, he greetedus and retired to his seat under the normal shed.As at Kana, his wives crowded together behind andthe soldieresses ranged themselves in front. Theceremonies consisted of dancing, drumming, and distributingdecorations—​necklaces of red and yellowbeads. There was fearful boasting about feats ofpast valour and bravery to come. About sunset theking suddenly approached us, and I thanked him forthe spectacle. He then withdrew, and we lost notime in following his example.

Nothing could be poorer than this display: anypetty Indian rajah can command more wealth andsplendour. All was barren barbarism, and the only“sensation” was produced by a score of human beingscondemned to death and enjoying the death show.

On the morrow I sent a message to the palace,officially objecting to be present at any human sacrifice,and declaring that if any murder took place before meI should retire to the coast. The reply was that fewwere to be executed, that the victims would only bemalignant war captives and the worst of criminals, andthat all should be killed at night. With this crumb ofcomfort I was compelled to rest satisfied. Hithertogangs of victims cruelly gagged had been paradedbefore visitors, in whose hearing and often beforewhose sight the murders were committed. Somethingis gained by diminishing the demoralising prominenceof these death scenes. It is not so long ago since itwas determined that the “customs” of England shouldbe performed within the prisons, and not further debasethe mob of spectators.

The catastrophe took place on what is called the“zan nya nyana,” or the evil night. At intervals weheard the boom of the death-drum announcing somehorrible slaughter. It was reported that the king hadwith his own hand assisted the premier-executioner.

On the next morning we were summoned to thepalace, whose approach was a horror. Four corpses,habited in the criminal shirts and nightcaps, sat asthough in life upon the usual dwarf stools. The seatswere supported upon a two-storied scaffold made offour rough beams, two upright and two horizontal,and about forty feet high. On a similar but smallererection hard by were two victims, one above the other.Between these substantial erections was a tall gallows ofthin posts, from which a single victim dangled by hisheels. Lastly, another framework of the same kindwas planted close to our path, and attached to thecross-bar, with fine cords round the ankles and abovethe knees, hung two corpses side by side and headdownwards. The bodies, though stiff, showed no signsof violence: the wretches had probably been stifled.

At the south-eastern gate of the palace we foundfreshly severed heads in two batches of six each,surrounded by a raised rim of ashes. The clean-cutnecks were turned upwards, and the features werenot visible. Within the entrance were two moreheads; all the bodies had been removed, so as not tooffend the king.

Thus on Gelele’s “evil night” twenty-three humanbeings had lost their lives. And this is but one act inthe fatal drama called the “customs.” It is said thatan equal number of women were slaughtered withinthe walls of the royal abode, and I had every reasonto believe the report.

I was kept waiting more than a month in this den ofabominations before the king could enter upon publicaffairs. He was discontented with the presents sentfrom England, and he was preparing to attack a hugeNago city—​Abeokuta—​where, by-the-bye, he wassignally defeated.

When my last visit to him took place he stubbornlyignored, even in the least important matters, the wishesof H.M.’s Government. Filled with an exaggeratedidea of his own importance, and flattered almost tomadness by his courtiers, he proceeded to dictate hisown terms. His next thought was an ignoble greedfor presents. He bade me a friendly adieu, and askedme to visit him next year with an English carriage andhorses, a large silk pavilion, and other such little gifts.I refused to promise, and I resolved not to put myhead for the third time into the hyæna’s mouth. Foralthough Gelele has never shed the blood of a whiteman, he might, at the bidding of his fetishers, send anew kind of messenger to Ku-to-men by means of acup of coffee or a dish of meat. I was glad when Ifound myself safely back in the pestilential climate ofFernando Po.

A TRIP UP THE CONGO
1863

A TRIP UP THE CONGO[7]

1863

BEFORE starting on an exploration into anypart of Africa (especially the West Coast), it isessential that the traveller should be properly equippedwith the necessary kit both for the inward and outwardman. Clothing, blankets, and waterproofs ofevery description; tea, coffee, and sugar if they bedesirable; a few bottles of real genuine cognac ifcome-at-able, or some ten years’ old Jamaica rum ifattainable.

On the occasion of our starting from FernandoPo in August 1863, for the purpose of ascendingthe river Congo, our kit consisted of one bullock-trunk,one small portable canteen, one dressing-bag,two uniform-cases, one hat-box, one gun-case, onetin box, one deal case of bread, one package of tinsof milk, one canteen of cooking utensils, one tinof green tea, one ditto coffee, one small box of medicalcomforts, etc., two striped bags, a white canvasbag containing newspapers, three guns, two walkingsticks, one camp bed and mats, two revolvers, onesimpiesometer, a pocket azimuth, an instrument case,one powder horn, one shot-bag and hunting ditto.At St. Paul de Loanda we added two cases of gin,and at Point Banana twelve pieces of siamois, orfancy cloths, twenty pieces riscados, or blue and whitestripe, and ten pieces satin stripe, besides six thousandfive hundred beads, china, and imitation corals. Toall this we afterwards received at Embomma fifteenkegs of gunpowder and ten demijohns of rum.

H.M.S. Torch took us down to Loango Bay,and there Captain Smith transferred us on board thesloop-of-war Zebra, Captain Hoskins, who in histurn took us to St. Paul’s and put us in the handsof Captain Perry, of H.M.S. Griffon, and thislatter vessel took us into the Congo; and forthwithwe commenced a start up the river on August31st, 1863.

The usual mode of ascending the river up as faras Embomma is by means of small fore and aftschooners, generally from twenty to forty tonsmeasurement, which are heavily sparred and well suppliedwith canvas. Our gear was taken by the Griffon’sboats and put on board the French schoonerEsperance. We had a fine breeze that afternoon,and the Esperance sailed up the river most gallantly.The party on board consisted of myself, Captain Perry,Mr. Bigley, and Monsieur Pisseaux, a Frenchman;besides William Dean, boatswain, my servant, fourFrench native soldiers, and the schooner’s crew.

Wednesday, September 2nd.—​We breakfasted at aPortuguese factory, and soon after breakfast weweighed anchor and sailed up the river, arrivingbetimes at Porto da Lentra. In the afternoon weleft Porto da Lentra, and proceeded. Passed severalvillages on the port hand. Boat got ashore severaltimes after dark. About nine o’clock the Missolongishailed and asked who we were. When I answered,they said they would pay us a visit during the night.We prepared to give them a warm reception. Duringthe night we rounded Point Devil, a most dangerousplace for navigation. Anchored at 10.30 p.m.

Thursday, September 3rd.—​Arrived at Embomma at1.30 p.m. Embomma contained a French factory andseveral Portuguese establishments. At 9.30 we gotunder weigh again, and in about an hour afterwardsentered a part of the river where it assumes theappearance of an inland lake, some parts nearly twomiles wide. The scenery here is varied, but principallyhilly, the highest of the hills being about 1,500 feetabove the level of the river. Here we met a nativechief in his canoe. He came to levy contributionsfrom us. His people, who were armed with guns andhatchets, made various warlike gestures and orderedus to stop. Monsieur Pisseaux being our guide andadviser, we were compelled to pay one bottle of rumand a piece of cloth twelve fathoms in length.

Captain Perry shot a fish-eagle, which was considereda fine achievement, as very few of that species canbe shot on account of their inclination to fly highin the air and to perch on the highest trees. Aboutthree o’clock we landed to rest, the scenery stillbearing the same character, only perhaps the hillswere a little higher than those we had passed. Thegrass was dry all over the hills (indeed, everywhereexcept close to the water’s edge); and little animallife being visible, the country had a very barren anddesolate appearance. The trees were not of muchconsequence, and most of those we saw were stuntedand leafless. The chief were the baobab, or monkeybread-fruit tree, the fan palm, or palmijra, a fewpalm-nut trees, and a species of large spreading treewell scattered over the water side. Its leaves were ofa dark green colour, about the size of the lime leaf;its fruit, a long reddish plum, was said to be eatenby monkeys, and also to be fit for human food.

Here was the farthest extent of Monsieur Pisseaux’sknowledge of the river, and, to our future sorrow,we landed in the banza, or district, of Nokki. Wecooked some food on shore, and messengers weredespatched with a bottle of gin to the king of Kayé.

Tuesday, September 8th.—​We now left the riverfor the interior, and found the road excessively irksomeand trying to our wind and legs; nothing but hillsand dales, the descents and ascents very difficult,and stony withal, the soles of our feet receiving amost disagreeable grating on small quartz and schistus.Passing one or two fields of native beans, we arrivedat the village of Kindemba.

After resting here for a short time we againstarted, and ascended a hill some six or seven hundredfeet in height, and came to another village, where wesaw something like a large baracoon for slaves, butit turned out to be a fetish house for circumcisedboys.

Not many minutes’ walk from this was thevillage of Kayé. On entering it we were marchedoff to see the king. We found him seated in state,dressed in a motley garb of European manufacture:a white shirt with collar turned down, a crimsonvelvet loin-cloth, fringed with gold and tied roundthe waist by means of a belt, and a beautifullymounted sheath-knife stuck in the belt. The handleof the knife was made of nickel silver, and veryshowily ornamented with imitation emeralds and rubygarnets. Over all he wore a red beadle’s cloak,and on his head a helmet somewhat resembling thoseworn by English Life Guardsmen, but it was evidentlyof French manufacture. The king was very young,apparently not more than twenty years of age, verysmooth-faced, and looked quite shy when he camevis-à-vis with his illustrious visitors. When we wereall seated, I on a chair, and the others on a coveredtable, the courtiers sat down on the ground at arespectful distance. The king’s old father was seatedon the ground before his son.

The king’s name was Sudikil, and that of his fatherGidi Mavonga, both of them very bright specimensof their race. After some compliments, Sudikil receivedhis presents—​one piece of fine fancy cloth and abottle of gin. The carriers received five bunches ofbeads. But it appeared that the king was not satisfiedwith his presents, and he would give us nothingto eat. Therefore my companions, Captain Perry,Dean, and Monsieur Pisseaux, at once started for theriver to return to Embomma. I, however, remained,and engaged Nchama, a native who spoke Africanidiomatic Portuguese, to act as interpreter and go-between.I may here mention that our party whenit first started from the river consisted of fifty-sixpersons, but it continued to augment until our arrivalat Kayé, when it mounted up to one hundred andfifty. We were domiciled for the night in the houseof Siko Chico Mpambo, a man who put himself upas a French interpreter, without even knowing onepersonal pronoun of that language. In the eveningthe rabble that pretended to have escorted our partydown to the canoe returned and requested some gin,and I gave them a bottle. The prince likewise sentfor a bottle, which he received.

Wednesday, September 9th.—​Early in the morningwe received a visit from Gidi Mavonga and his sonKing Sudikil. They examined all our travelling-gear,whilst my servant kept sentry at the door to preventtheir escort from going into the house. This consistedof ten men, four of whom carried matchlocks.After about half an hour’s palaver, everything washanded over to Gidi, who promised to start for theCongo in three days, and, in consideration of receivingthe said goods, bound himself to take us there, bringus back, and feed us by the way. This arrangementwas a good one, as it secured the friendship of theold chief and prevented him and his people fromrobbing and poisoning us.

We later received a visit from Tetu Mayella, kingof an adjacent village called Neprat. He was accompaniedby about twenty followers, all of whomcame to us for the express purpose of gettingsome rum. Tetu Mayella wrangled for two hourswith Gidi and another half-hour with Sudikil abouta bottle of grog, and ultimately despatched Nchamato plead with me for him. I referred him backto Gidi Mavonga, and, after a further consultation,Tetu received one bottle of gin, in return forwhich he came personally and presented us with twofowls. This was a godsend, as the day before wehad nothing to eat but a few pieces of dry bread, andwater to wash it down. A pig was then slaughteredwith great ceremony. The carcass was cut up anddivided according to custom, the king getting thelion’s share, and the other personages an allowancein accordance with their rank. We made ready toretire to rest after eating a good bush dinner anddrinking plenty of palm wine. Gidi Mavonga paidus a visit late in the evening, and final arrangementswere made with him to proceed first to Yellalla, orthe Congo Cataracts, and afterwards to St. Salvador,or Great Gongo City.

Thursday, September 10th.—​The direction of theYellalla Cataracts from the village of Kayé waseast-north-east, and that of St. Salvador, or Congo,east-south-east. This morning we had dandelioncoffee for the fourth time. It was a most excellentdecoction, acting, when used judiciously, on theliver and kidneys. We found that the nativesbreakfasted on beans, ground nuts, fish, and beefwhen it can be had, and the second course is a goodjorum of palm wine. At noon we began packingup, in order to start for Gidi Mavonga’s village.The natives of the Congo are divided into two classesonly, the mfumo, or freeman, and the muleque,or slave. The mfumo marries amongst his ownslaves, or, properly speaking, retainers, and thechildren born by him are in their turn mfumos, orfreemen. The word slave is here quite improperlyused, for the slave in reality is a freer man thanthe king himself. Everything the king possesses,except his wives, is literally at the disposal of theslave. Unquestionably the slave is the bodyguard ofthe mfumo, and, as regards work, he does whathe likes, sleeps when he chooses, attends to hisprivate affairs when he pleases, and if his masterfinds fault with his conduct, the chances are, if hisown country be not too far away from the placeof his thraldom, he will leave his master and makea bold effort to reach his native land.

Friday, September 11th.—​Very early this morningwe were astonished by hearing a yelling noise froma lot of women. To use a Scotch phrase, it wasa regular “skirl.” It so happened that a womanwas bearing a child, and these noises were madeeither to drown the pains of labour or to welcomethe little stranger into his trouble. In any case,we pitied the poor sufferer in travail, for the screechingmust have given her an awful headache.

Gidi Mavonga came to take us to his village ofChingufu this morning. It was not a long journey,we found. Gidi’s house was a facsimile of the one wehad left at Kayé: an oval building upheld by twoupright posts, and the roof supported by a longstout beam laid on the top of, and tied to, theuprights. The hut boasted of three doors, one ateach end and one at the side. Doubtless, fox-like,the suspicious native makes all these doors to serveas mediums of escape in case of war or a slave-hunt.There was a partition in the centre dividing the hutinto two rooms, the first being a general room, and thesecond the sanctum sanctorum, accessible only to thehusband and wife. The furniture was very simple,consisting of a native bed in each room. The wallsand roof were composed of bamboos and grass veryneatly tied together. There was no flooring butthe clay bottom, and the whole looked very cleanand simple.

Gidi appeared to be a great worshipper of thenative fetish Ibamba, or Nzamba, a variation ofthe devil. The natives called him Masjinga, andhe is a house-god, usually keeping guard at thebedsides. The idol in Gidi’s hut was a peculiarlydroll-looking object. He was an image about threefeet in height, with his mouth wide open, his underlip hanging down, and the upper drawn up as ifby some strong convulsions, his nose flat as Africa,and the nostrils very much inflated. His eyes werecomposed of pieces of looking-glass, and in hisbelly was inserted a penny mirror, but for whatpurpose we could not discover. On his head wasan English billyco*ck hat, and about his shoulderswere hung different kinds of medicines, a calabash,and a knife. The face of this wonderful figurewas part black, part red, and part white. On thewalls of the house, and particularly about the bed,were hung medicines, spells, and potions of everydescription, supposed to be antidotes against everyevil to which the human frame is subject; medicinesto prevent gun-shots from taking effect, spells againstill-luck, potions to have wives and plenty of children,and, in fine, charms to protect against the wrathand subtlety of Nzamba.

About midday we had a visit from some neighbouringchiefs, all gaily attired. They wore rednightcaps on their heads, and this was the onlyhead-dress I ever saw adopted by the men ongreat occasions, Sudikil’s military helmet excepted.The women always went bareheaded. I had oftenwondered where in the wide universe old clotheswent to after they are purchased by the Jews inLondon. The mystery was here solved, for I foundkings wearing second-hand livery suits, with thecoronet and crest of a marquis on the button, andprinces disporting themselves in marines’ jackets ofthe last century, besides a variety of heterogeneoushabiliments, such as old superfine black coats whichhad been worn threadbare, and pantaloons whose seatshad become quite glazed from long service. Allthese had been cleaned and turned inside out bythe Jews; and, although some would scarcely bearthe tug of needle and thread, they were sent outto the west coast of Africa as bran-new garments,love of dress entirely blinding the natives to theirdefects. Our visitors were regaled with palm wineand a bottle of gin, and after laughing and talkingfor a long time they went away.

About sunset we witnessed a native game, whichcertainly was one of the liveliest sights since our startup the river. A number of Gidi’s slaves assembledin a large open space between the houses, and, dividingthemselves into two parties, began throwing a ballfrom one to another. Upwards of twenty wereengaged in this game, and the fun consisted in theone side dodging about in all directions, and preventingits opponents from catching the ball by playing thegame into each others’ hands. The ball was madeof palm fibre tied round with a central fibre of theplantain leaf. After sunset there was a wild country-dance,which was kept up to a late hour.

Saturday, September 12th.—​The chief Furano, whowas expected from Embomma, arrived the nextmorning, and we started at once for the cataracts.After marching for a short time and passing two orthree small villages, we commenced a descent in anorth-easterly direction, and, journeying at a rapidpace for about three miles, we entered the village ofChinsawu, the residence of Prince Nelongo. Arrivedat Nelongo’s, we were detained for about half an hour,waiting in the verandah of an empty house, after whichwe were honoured by the presence of the prince, whointimated his pleasure to us by asserting that unlessthe same presents as those given to Sudikil weregiven to him, it would be impossible for us to passhis place. This was preposterous, for we only stoppedto breakfast here, whereas we were four or five daysin the territory of Sudikil. It was remarkable thatnearly all the people in this region, from the princedown to the smallest child, were diseased with theitch. We observed them lying on the ground frommorning till night, with their skins so covered withdust that a hippopotamus was a clean beast whencompared with these beings, who ranked in animatenature as lords of creation.

We were comfortably housed at Nelongo’s village,but Gidi and Nelongo were palavering all day, hammerand tongs. I noticed at Nelongo’s village, as I didin other places on the banks and neighbourhood ofthe Congo, that all the children were afraid of thewhite man, for when any person attempted to bringthem in proximity with me, the little brats howled asif Satan from the infernal regions had got hold ofthem. Most of the women were of the same textureas their progeny.

Sunday, September 13th.—​After coffee this morningall the great folks assembled in front of our houseand recommenced the half-finished palaver of lastevening. Council present: myself, Gida Mavonga,Nelongo, Furano, Siko Npamba, and InterpreterNchama. All ended in talk, and Nchama threatenedto resign. The native idea of the riches possessed bya white man is fabulous. Nelongo refused to believethat we had not sufficient cloth with us to answerhis most exorbitant demands. We had a respectablepresent for him; but that did not satisfy his avarice,and he wanted more than we had taken with us forthe whole road. As there was another prince toconsult in the matter, it was agreed, at my suggestion,that the whole of our gear should be submitted toexamination. The expected prince arrived, carriedon a hammock, and, after a heavy palaver and agreat deal of yelling from the women, he wentaway; and then we had another visit from Nelongo,who made some very noisy demonstrations, but as thenoise was conducted in the language of the country,we were not able to understand a single syllable. Sufficeit to say that the whole affair ended by his receivingan additional supply of cotton, not from us, but fromGidi Mavonga. This Nelongo handed to one of hisarmed slaves, and then went away; but he returnedagain in about five minutes and intimated that thepalaver was all right, which caused Gidi and his mento make demonstrations of approval by jumping upand running some paces from the house and attackinga supposed enemy. Then they returned to the house,Furano holding the supposed wounded head of GidiMavonga. But the truth must be told: the wholebatch of the debaters had got drunk on a mixtureof palm wine and Hollands. Hence the noise, which,however, I did not allow to affect me, for I assumedduring the greater part of the row the most stoicalsilence, and pretended to go to sleep. These tacticswere successful, and we were shortly afterwardsinformed that we could depart in peace.

We were ready to start by twelve o’clock noon.The sun was very hot, and the thermometer stood at90° in the shade; but we were glad to get out ofa place which reminded us of Bedlam, and thereforeset out in all haste, making a slight descent into avalley, and then ascending a peculiarly formed hill,the perpendicular height of which might be a hundredand fifty feet, and from whose summit we obtained aglorious view of the river, which was seen some eighthundred feet below us, flowing down rapidly andmajestically to the sea. But the utter barrenness of thecountry in the vicinity of its banks carried away everyassociation of fertility. This view of the country,however, is given at the end of the dry season, whenalmost every tree loses its leaves, and the green grassbecomes withered and dried up.

From this point we began a decline down hill whichbeggars description. We had not walked above aquarter of a mile before we arrived at a part of ourroad where, without the least exaggeration, the path,if such it could be called, was only two degrees fromthe perpendicular, and as slippery as ice, owing to theloose stones and dry grass that created a stumbling-blockfor the feet, and we had frequently to descendsitting instead of walking down. Alpine and Vesuvianmountaineers, do try the banks of the Congo.

The distance from Nelongo’s village to the banksof the river was about five miles, and on reachingthe water-side we found ourselves exactly at thejunction of the Nomposo with the Congo River. TheNomposo, we were informed, extended all the way toSt. Salvador, but was not navigable, even for canoes.There were some fishermen who followed their vocationat the mouth of this small river, whose services weresoon brought into requisition to take us across theNomposo and land us a little above its mouth, buton the bank of the great river. This landing wasthe place where the fishermen dried their fish, andwas called Munyengi Asiko. Being heartily tired,we very gladly sat down, and ultimately got ourselvesready to pass the night in the open air, not for thefirst time. Just about sunset this evening we werevisited by one of those nasty drizzling showers, commonlycalled a Scotch mist. In about an hour itincreased to a smart shower; but, luckily, we werewell provided with good waterproof sheets and coats,so that no harm happened to the gear or to ourselves.

Monday, September 14th.—​Great excitement thismorning, having on the previous night lost my tabletsof daily memoranda. An offer of four fathoms ofcloth was made to any person who would recover thesame and return them to their owner. The wholebatch of carriers and fishermen were instantly hardat work trying to find the missing tablets. Aftertwenty minutes’ search they were found in CaptainTuckey’s book on the Congo.

Another row amongst the natives. It appearsthat some two days previously a man had suppliedanother with two jars of palm wine upon conditionof his receiving some fish in return. The unluckyfisherman, after drinking the wine, did not succeedin catching fish for two days, and consequently wasunable to pay his debt. Hence the high words andbrandishing of hatchets on the part of the wine merchantand his people. But that was all; no blows werestruck, for the dog that barks very loud seldom bites.

It is always advisable in travelling through Africato keep guides and interpreters ignorant of yourpossessions, for they are sure to make some excuseor other to fleece you. This morning we had evidenceof this. We had paid our guide everything thatwas necessary for the road, yet he sent the interpreterto ask us for a piece of fancy cloth which he knewI had. I had to grant his request, otherwise I mighthave had to give up the journey, for ten chances toone he would have left me in a huff.

At eight o’clock we crossed the river, the timeoccupied being a quarter of an hour. We reached thevillage of Vivi after half an hour’s march; distance, oneand a half miles. Nesalla was the name of the kingat Vivi; he spoke Portuguese and dressed plainly.One of his attendants, however, wore a hussar’sjacket. Nesalla sent three bunches of plantains andseven fowls for the expedition. At twelve o’clock Iwashed, more or less in public, and, in the meantime,the women and children performed a grigri forgoodness to be bestowed on their town and prince.One of the children beat on a long native drum,another performed on a native whistle attached toan image of Diabolus, and the women used theirtongues very freely. It was a horrid din.

About two o’clock Nesalla came with upwards ofone hundred men and commenced a long palaver aboutour going on to Yellalla. Five or six persons spoke,and the conference lasted one hour. The conclusionshowed that the cloth we had with us was not enough,and that the princes at Yellalla must get a differentpiece from that which was before the conference, andno division into two pieces must be made of it underany consideration whatever. As the whole affair wasconducted in a most good-humoured manner, I agreedto the terms.

In the evening the inhabitants of the village hada dance. Those who have witnessed the Spanishcachucha need scarcely be told what this dance was.The cachucha is a very good dance in its way; butthe Congo dance beats it hollow, because it has morepith in it than the cachucha. The fun was kept uptill a late hour, every one, both great and small,young and old, joining in it, so that in the end, whatwith palm wine and excitement, the people becamequite unruly, and when they left off the babel oftongues was unbearable. They came to our quarters,aroused us out of our sleep by opening the door andvery unceremoniously pulling our clothes from us.They wanted some sort of covering, and thinking wemight be kind enough to let them have something,took the liberty of taking without asking. We couldnot, however, submit to this. We permitted old GidiMavonga to sleep in the house, and turned the restout of doors.

Tuesday, September 15th.—​Early this morning westarted for the Banza Nculu. The scenery along theroad was varied and picturesque. The first view wehad of the river was from an eminence about a milefrom Vivi on the road to the Banza Nculu. Herewe had a view of the Congo as it was flowing onwards,and round about in all directions were hills and dalesadding a panoramic beauty to the scene. We hadto descend from the summit of the first hill and ascenda second one much higher than the first, and fromhere we again obtained views of the Congo. One,the lower view, appeared like a lake, apparently shutin on all sides by hills, whose lofty summits stretchedfar and wide on every side, and some of them peeredto the height of above a thousand feet into the heavens.Proceeding onwards, we ascended a third eminence,but by this time we had lost sight of the river, andour path became more level for a short distance.

We now commenced a gradual descent, but beforedoing so we obtained an open and extensive viewof the valley that lay between us and the Banza Nculu.On descending into the valley, we found the soila dark clay mould with fewer stones on it than onthat of the country through which we had hithertopassed. It was certainly a fine sight to behold, andthe best addition to the scene was the caravan whichformed the expedition now disappearing down a valley,now rising to the top of one of the many hillockswith which the valley abounded. The fertility of thesoil may be observed here from the fact of the grassgrowing to the height of ten or twelve feet, and herealso the native beans grow to a greater height thandid those we saw in other parts of the country. Inthe valley we crossed three streams of running water,all feeders of the big river; and considering that itwas the latter end of the dry season, these streamsall had a fair supply of water.

We now arrived at the summit of the hill of theBanza Nculu, and as the three kings and three interpreterscould not be seen at once, in consequenceof their having first to settle some palaver about fish,we were compelled to bivouac under a large tree inthe environs of Nculu until their highnesses mightcondescend to give us an audience. We breakfastedunder the large tree, and were amused before and afterbreakfast by a number of urchins (say eight or ten)who had undergone the ceremony of circumcision, andwho delighted in making a churring noise—​a ch-u-r-rdecidedly intended to frighten us into hysterics. Butour nerves were stronger than they at first imagined,and I went up to them and complimented them ontheir performance. The dress of these youths was acrinoline made of palm leaves, extending from theirarmpits down to their knees, or a little below that.Their arms, neck, and face were chalked white, andone of them had on a mask representing a whiteman with whiskers. The performance of this maskwas admirably wild and laughable.

About two o’clock one of the three interpreterscame to see us. He was dressed in a trade shirt andred nightcap, and was accompanied by a few menonly, and had merely come to show us to a house.

At half-past three we heard the beating of a drumand cone, and, on looking out at the door, saw aprocession making its way to the house in whichwe were lodged. I was already seated at the door,and, the whole cavalcade coming up, they seatedthemselves around the front of the house in a semicircle.Altogether there might have been about twohundred and fifty persons, including all sexes andsizes. Three ministers belonging to the three kingswere the principal personages, and had come asambassadors for their masters. One of them hadalready given his opinion in a refusal to permit meto pass on to Sundi, and it now remained for thewhole council to arrive at the ultimate decision ofYes or No. The first conference assembled andbroke up in a very short time. The beginningappeared favourable, for the ministers retired amidstthe noise of drum and cone. The latter is an ironmusical instrument peculiar to the country, and whenplayed sounds exactly like the triangle of theEthiopian serenaders. When they had reached thepalaver tree we heard a great yelling among thepopulace, which showed that they were satisfied. Ina very short time they returned again to the houseand waited till I had finished dinner, and thendemanded the presents for themselves and their royalmasters. As usual they were not satisfied; but wehad no more to give them, and Furano, our interpreter,took one of the ministers into the house andshowed him all our gear. A grunt from the ministerannounced to us that he saw it was impossible toget “blood out of a stone.”

They went away, and the third conference tookplace at four o’clock. This was the Grand Council,and there were plenty who spoke, the upshot ofthe whole affair being that they ultimately demandedthe moderate sum of £300 in cloth, beads, and liquor,giving us permission (on our agreeing to the foregoingterms) to go on to Sundi above the cataracts, a journeyoccupying only three days. “Impudence is betterthan modesty,” but we thought this was carryingimpudence to a pitch. This sum was out of thequestion, and had we been possessed of enough toanswer the demands of those bushmen, rather thanacquiesce, we should certainly have preferred throwingthe amount into the “Slough of Despond.”

Wednesday, September 16th.—​This morning we wentto view the rapids. We found that the Yellalla Rapidsran east-north-east and west-south-west, and mightbe said to be about a mile in length. They wereassuredly very grand, although the natives led usto expect something grander still. Some fishermenwere busy catching fish up and down the quieterpart of the rapids, whilst the eagles and cranes weresatisfying their hunger in the vicinity of the islandof Sanga-chya-Malemba in the middle of the stream,some hundred yards from either side of the river’sbanks.

All day Gidi Mavonga was very stubborn andirritable, and wished to start at once for Vivi andreturn home; but as I had to put up some botanicalspecimens, to finish two sketches of this part of thecountry, and besides, having sore feet from walking,I would not hear of starting. Gidi therefore started,after repeated palavers, and called his muleks tofollow him: some followed; others begged off, butto no purpose. Off he went, and after proceedinga short distance, returned, and in very strong wordsexpressed himself an injured man. This was takinghigh ground; I therefore told the interpreter to tellGidi that he might go away, and, at the same time,to inform him that he must send certain propertiesbelonging to me which had been left at his banza,and that in future no further communication wouldbe held with his place by any Englishman.

Gidi said that the property belonged to him. Itold him to take all, but, he might rely upon it,the kings who live close to the riverside would haveto answer for the things. Whereupon Gidi at oncegave way, and most submissively begged pardon, andmatters were set right for a short time.

Saturday, September 19th.—​We found ourselvesback again at Gidi Mavonga’s village, paying off allthe extra hands who accompanied us to the rapids.The pay was made in cloth, beads, and liquors.

The heavy demands made by the bigwigs of BanzaNculu—​viz. £300 for mere permission to pass toSundi, beside the enormous expense of feeding ourselvesand thirty-five followers—​had compelled usto give up the project we had in view, especially aswe had seen the principal rapids on the river—​therest of the falls, until reaching Sundi, being mereelevations, in themselves quite insignificant. Myobject had been to reach Sundi, and thence try toascertain the course of the river, and to find outwhether its source could be nearly reached by canoes,or entirely reached by carriers. But finding thedemands of the chiefs beyond my power of compliance,I resolved to return. Our chief guide, Gidi Mavonga,was anxious to make a retrograde movement asquickly as possible, and urged upon us the necessityof packing up and starting after three o’clock onthe afternoon of our return from visiting the rapids.But I declined to stir until the next morning, andafter much trouble I gave him and his slaves oneblanket cloth and a pair of razors, which quietedhim a little. But it was soon evident that even thismunificent gift merely banked up the fires of discordin the breasts of the savages, for the same dissatisfactionwas observable even after we returnedto their village. The day of settlement broughtGidi and his slaves to our temporary residence, andwhat followed beggared powers of description. Whatuproar! What threats! What runnings to andfro! All the devils in the infernal regions appearedto have infused a double portion of their diabolicalinfluence into the bodies and souls of their willingdisciples on that day of settlement, and when everybody’sfury had reached the climax of rage and insolence,old Gidi rushed into the house occupied byus, commenced turning all our gear upside down, andat last laid forcible hands upon a bale of merchandise.

I therefore quietly informed the wild old man thathe was carrying matters too far, asked the meaningof it, and took out a six-barrelled Colt’s revolver, andplaced it at my feet ready for use in case of need.This had the desired effect, for Gidi, after taking along, covetous look at the bale of merchandise, turnedround and stared at the leveller of six men at my feet,and having balanced the difference, he slunk out inperfect silence, followed by his two myrmidons, whohad accompanied their master into the house to carryaway anything that their lord might select. Outsidethe slaves still clamoured, and at last induced theirmaster to beard me again when I was writing.

Thus for two days affairs progressed as hot as fireand as irritating as a wife’s bad temper, till at length,by some special interposition of Providence, we managedto make arrangements for some people to carry ourgear down to the riverside, and for a canoe to takeus to Embomma, one of the principal stations on theriver.

The preliminaries of this arrangement occupied twodays, and on the morning of the third day we wereready to start by half-past five o’clock, but no carriershad as yet made their appearance, and after they didcome, it was with the same infernal noise that wemanaged to start them with the loads. But the momentthey were en route they almost ran with the things,and shortly disappeared from our view. We followedas quickly as we could after them, and arriving atKayé, a sentinel with a gun stopped us, and informedus that his Highness Prince Sudikil desired ourpresence. On reaching the house of our old landlord,we discovered the whole of our gear before his door,and the prince with his mother and some of his slavesstanding in a circle round the things, whilst one disgusting-lookingbrute was about to open a box ofbeads. I at once walked up to the rascal and gavehim a castigation with a stick. The fellow lookeddaggers; but on showing him a fine breech-loadingCooper’s rifle, he held down his head and slunk alittle way back from the box and sat down.

And now commenced a palaver between the princeand myself, the substance of which was that theprince wished to exact more presents from me, butthis time by force. The armed slaves began to comeup one by one, until they added a considerable numberto the crowd. I told the prince that it was customaryto give on the arrival but not on the departure ofa stranger. But as his highness persisted in his inflexibledetermination to have something, I referred himto Mambuka Prata, a powerful chief at Embomma, andrequested Sudikil to take and keep my signet ring untilthe case was settled by arbitration at head-quarters.

At this suggestion the prince, his mother, someof the slaves, and even Nchama, our interpreter,commenced such a babel of tongues that we wishedthe whole bunch of them keeping company withPharaoh at the bottom of the Red Sea. It wasquite evident that they had perceived the absurdityand obstinacy of their covetous desires. The princetherefore walked away in a great rage, taking withhim all his slaves, and nearly one-half of those whohad brought our kit from his father’s house. Here,again, was another fix. We were standing ponderingover the peculiar position in which we were placed,when luckily the few who remained at once resolvedto carry each a double load, and this brought us tothe waterside, and examining all our baggage, andseeing everything correct, I made a present of beadsto the carriers and had breakfast.

By 9.45 a.m. we set off for Embomma withthankfulness, where we arrived at 5 p.m. on thesame day, having run down with the current, slightlyassisted by paddles, a distance of forty-five miles inseven hours and a quarter.

Wednesday, September 23rd.—​John Clarke, beingengaged to go with us to St. Salvador, started thisafternoon with Nchama to bring carriers fromMambuka Prata. Chief Mambuka Prata had a fewtrading huts close to the French factory, where heflew a black and white flag on trading occasions.The district of Embomma may extend about eightor ten miles in length, and throughout the whole ofit villages of from ten to twenty houses may be seenstanding in all directions, and sometimes several milesapart from one another. The king’s residence mayconsist of sixty houses, and it is generally at the royalvillages that the traveller finds a home during hissojourn.

Thursday, September 24th.—​At Embomma. Thisday’s proceedings have been more annoying than anythat have preceded it. The two messengers, JohnClarke and Nchama, who had been sent on a missionto Mambuka Prata, returned without having accomplisheda single order in connection with the missionentrusted to them. Nchama returned about six o’clockin the morning, perfectly drunk, and incapable ofgiving a single word of explanation as to his whereaboutsand doings. John Clarke returned in theafternoon, and gave rather a tame version of hisproceedings. He said that Mambuka Prata, beingannoyed at not receiving a coat promised him byMonsieur Pisseaux, would not send any carriers totake us on to St. Salvador. What a Frenchman’sconduct had to do with an Englishman’s affairs Icould not conceive. He (Mambuka Prata) said thecarriers would not be forthcoming until he receiveda book from the white man, or saw him himself.This last sounded like a falsehood, as there was not asoul in all Vinda who could read a single scrap, and,besides, our interpreters took with them a very goodbook in the shape of a demijohn of rum and a tenthof powder, but whether these had been deliveredinto the hands of the proper persons was a question.Nchama, having been severely reprimanded, repaired tohis village, and did not make his appearance againuntil the day we left Embomma.

Friday, September 25th.—​We left Embomma, andarrived in Porto da Lentra at 1.15 on the morningof Saturday, September 26th. On the way downthe canoemen made several attempts to land at variousvillages, but were forced to proceed for fear of Colt’srevolvers. They did very well, and received sixbottles of rum.

We left Porto da Lentra for Point Banana at4.15 on the morning of September 27th. We hadexchanged our smaller but fine canoe for a large one,and started with six hands and captain, but hadscarcely lost sight of Porto da Lentra when our canoemenwent up a creek—​they said to get extra clothing.We were detained more than half an hour waitingfor them, until probably they had eaten their breakfastand drunk their palm wine. We got them to startwith great difficulty; but at the very next creek theystopped again, and would have repeated the dose atother places had we not had recourse to our friendsin need, the revolvers.

At the creek one man jumped on shore and wepushed off again; but a few yards down we werehailed by a Missolongi canoe, the river-pirates ofthis part of the Congo. This third time our canoemenstopped; and we were obliged to face themwith co*cked revolvers and compel them to go on.Down we glided, assisted more by the current thanby our men. Another creek, and the canoemenrequested to stop again to eat, which request waspositively refused.

The river had been hitherto very calm, but at twoo’clock the sea-breeze began to blow hard; the tidewas also slightly against us, and this caused a swellin the river which wetted nearly all our things. Iwas surveying at the time, and, fearing that the instrumentsmight get a soaking with salt water, Iordered the canoemen to put back and return to PointBanana by means of a creek on the right of the river.This appeared to the canoemen to be awfully hardwork, although they had only to pull back for abouta quarter of a mile. The Congoes are remarkablefor their uselessness: they excel in eating, drinking,sleeping, and talking, in a word, in satisfying theirsensual comforts, and what little sense they have isused for the purpose of annoying those with whomthey come in contact. More than five times theywere asked to make sail, and then gave a few strokeswith their paddles, and stopped and chatted again, putthe canoe broadside on to the billows, let her driftback, and again gave a few more strokes.

In this way nearly an hour passed away, and wenever reached the end of the quarter-mile. Theybegan to complain that the way by the creek wastoo far, whilst just a short time before that they toldus the creek was the nearest. They now declaredthat they could proceed no farther, and pulled thecanoe in shore. Seeing that the whole bevy of them,from the captain to the small boy, were all drunkfrom drinking some rum they had brought withthem, we could do nothing but submit to this stateof things, anything being preferable to trusting thecanoe with a lot of drunken hands, and getting ourselvesand gear saturated with salt water.

The crew were permitted to land. They lighted afire, cooked, ate, drank, quarrelled, and went to sleep.The padron, or captain, took possession of the rum,and drank himself to sleep also; and when the windabated a little and the water became calmer, weawakened the captain with difficulty, and he withgreater difficulty his crew; but the tide had gonedown, and the canoe was high and dry on the bank.All efforts to launch her into the water provedunavailing, especially as the rum was still hard atwork, and what little sense the Congoes had wasperfectly misapplied. In consequence we had towait until the tide again served, which did not takeplace till two o’clock the following morning, whenwe tried again to start our hands, and with greatdelay and noise managed to reach Point Bananaat 4.15 a.m.

At six o’clock all our things were landed andcomfortably housed within Monsieur Parrat’s factory.Thank God! we were now at a considerable distancefrom Yellalla and the triumvirate and avariciouatriple ministers of the Banza Nculu, far away fromthe Banza Vivi and its king, far away from thequarrelsome, covetous, gin-drinking, noisy, and licentiousold Gidi Mavonga, far away from that senselessnincompoop the Prince Sudikil, and—​praise be toAllah!—​within hail of Her Majesty’s ship Griffon.

[7] This MS. consisted mainly of notes roughly jotted down by Burtonin a memorandum book. I have thought it best to publish them asthey stood, with no alterations except those necessary to make theessay coherent and legible.—​W. H. W.

THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL
1867

THE INTERIOR OF BRAZIL

1867

I  HAD been in Brazil nearly two years, vegetatingbetween Santos and São Paulo, varied by anoccasional expedition afield or a trip to Rio de Janeiro,when I determined to put into action my long-cherishedplan of prospecting the great and wealthy province ofMinas Gerães in the interior, and then to go down theSão Francisco, which is the Brazilian Mississippi, fromSabará to the sea, and to visit en route the PauloAffonso rapids, the Niagara of Brazil. As my wifewas very anxious to go, I took her with me.

We left Rio on June 12th, 1867, and sailedacross the incomparable Bay, and then ascended toPetropolis. From Petropolis we made our real startin a large char-à-banc, which held eight, in two andtwo, and which was drawn by four mules. The mulesstarted off in fine style; being fresh and frisky theysimply galloped along the mountain side. It is notnecessary for me to describe the first part of the journey,which, for a few days, travelled along a well-knownroad, through a splendid district of wooded mountains,broad rivers, and boulders of rock; the vegetationwas especially fine, even tropical. At Juiz de Forawe abandoned our char-à-banc for the coach, wherebywe travelled to Barbacena, and here again we left thecoach for the saddle, and followed the bridle-road, ifindeed it could be called a road.

I should weary if I were to describe the places wepassed through until we came to Logão Duroda, wherethe railway was in process of making, and where theywere just laying the first chain for the exploration ofthe mountains and for the prolongation of the DomPedro Secunda Railway. There was an inaugurationceremony, and my wife had the honour of giving thefirst blow to the stock and breaking a bottle of wineover it. After that we had a convivial gathering, andwound up with a dinner in the good old Englishfashion. Next day we started off again, and still ridingthrough beautiful scenery, up and down mountains,through shallow rivers and bits of virgin forests, fromday to day, we eventually arrived at Morro Velho,where we were most hospitably received by the superintendentof the São Goa d’el Rey Mining Companyand Mrs. Gordon, and we spent some days in theirmost comfortable home. Morro Velho is the queenof the Minas Gerães mines, and a most interestingplace, but, as we were going back to it, we determinedto press on to Ouro Preto, which is the capital of theprovince, a most hilly town, for walking up and downthe streets was as difficult as climbing up ladders.We stayed here two days, and then returned to MorroVelho. We had a long, muddy, rainy journey on theway back, slipping backward two steps for every oneforward, but at last we arrived at the Gordons’ houseagain, and were warmly welcomed as before. Herewe tarried for a fortnight, and thoroughly exploredeverything.

Among other things we explored the mine, whichhad the reputation of being the largest, deepest, andrichest gold-mine in Brazil. My wife determinedto go with me, and Mrs. Gordon, who had neverbefore ventured under grass, kindly consented toaccompany her. Mr. Gordon and I went down firstin a bucket, or kibble, which was suspended over theabyss. We found in it a rough wooden seat, comfortableenough. We were advised by the pitmannot to look downwards, as the glimmer of the sparksand lights below was apt to cause giddiness and seasickness.I did look down and felt none the worse.We touched and tilted half over once against a cablewaydrum, but that was our only contretemps.I could not but wonder at the mighty timberingwhich met my eyes as it dilated in the darkness;—​timbereverywhere, all of the best and hardest wood.The mighty mass, it might hardly be said, was notwithout flaws, very palpable at second look. Wemade an easy descent down the shaft, and a bunchof lighted tow, tied to the bucket chain, showed usall its features. There was no “rattle his bones overthe stones,” and the drop lasted fifteen minutes. Atthe bottom the kibble, or bucket, stood still, beganto reel like a boat, and descended perpendicularlyuntil we stepped out. Presently Mrs. Gordon andmy wife, habited in brown holland trousers, beltedblouses, and miners’ caps, came down, delighted withthe kibble travelling. The men did everything tobanish the ladies’ alarm, and spoke and cheered usas we passed. The mine was utterly new to me,and most unlike the dirty labyrinth of little cleftsand filthy galleries down which I have often crawledlike a low reptile; the height suggested a cavernor a huge stone-quarry.

Candle burning, the usual test, detected nothingabnormal in the atmosphere; the ventilation wasexcellent. Of course, our feet were wiped, and,physically speaking, they wanted wiping; the floorwas wet, the mud was slippery, and locomotion somewhatlike an ascent of the Pyramids, although theground was pretty level.

It was a huge palace of darkness; the walls wereeither black as the grave, or reflected in the slenderrays of light a watery surface, or were broken intomonstrous projections, half revealing and half concealingcavernous recesses. Despite the lamps, thenight pressed upon us, as it were, with a weight, andthe only measure of distance was a spark here andthere, glimmering like a single star. Distinctly nerve-testingwas the gulf between the huge mountainsides, apparently threatening every moment to fall.Through this Inferno gnomes glided about in aghostly fashion, half-naked figures enveloped by themist. Here dark bodies hung by chains in whatseemed frightful positions; there they swung likeleopards from place to place; there they swarmedup loose ropes like troglodytes; there they movedover scaffolding, which even to look up at wouldmake a nervous temperament dizzy.

Our visit to the mine amply repaid us; it was aplace

Where thoughts were many, and words were few.

But the fact will remain on our mental retina aslong as our brains will do their duty.

After a fortnight at Morro Velho I prepared to goto Sabará, there to embark en route to the coast. Witha peculiar cat-like feeling I bade adieu to the Gordons,with whom we had found an English home in theHighlands of Brazil. My excellent compatriots,however, accompanied me to break the shock ofdeparture; my wife also, though, as she had sprainedher ankle badly, she was to return to Rio.

It was a long ride from Morro Velho and a tiringone, and we were glad to enter the picturesque cityof Sabará, where we found tolerable lodgings. HereI completed my preparations for descending theRio das Velhas, and had to seek the aid of a store-keeper,who turned out to be an extortioner. That,perhaps, was only to be expected; but I may justlycomplain when, in addition to his extortionate charges,he sent me down the river, a river like the Mississippi,in a raft whose starboard canoe had a leak scarcelystopped up with Sabará clay.

The next day we all walked down to the upperlanding-place, where the ajojo, or raft, lay. I neversaw such an old Noah’s ark, with its standingawning, a floating gipsy “pal,” some seven feethigh and twenty-two long, and pitched like a tentupon two hollowed logs. The river, I thought,must indeed be safe if this article can get downwithout an accident.

All the notables of the place witnessed the processof embarkation. A young English lady broke a bottleof wine with all possible grace upon the bows, andduly christened the craft the Eliza and two pairsof slippers were thrown at my head. Many vivaswere given and returned, and all my party embarkedfor a trial trip of a couple of miles. When the fifteensouls came on board, they sank the raft some threepalms, and deluged the upper platform, making theheadman, or pilot, very nervous; already he beganto predict swamping, “going down in a jiffey,” andbeing dashed to pieces by the rapids. We shot pasta dangerous rock in mid-stream, and in a short timearrived at the little village of Santo Antonio da RoçaGrande, where animals were waiting to carry homethe non-voyagers, my wife included. They landedhere, but stood as the setting sun sank behind themountains and waved their farewells as they watchedthe raft turn the last corner and float off into thefar mysterious unknown. I confess to having felt anunusual sense of loneliness as the kindly faces fadedaway in the distance, and, by way of distraction, Iapplied myself to a careful examination of my raft.

The ajojo, or, as it is called in other places, the“balsa,” here represents the flat boat of the Mississippi.On the Rio das Velhas, however, it had not yet becomean institution, and at that time I was the only travellerwho had yet passed down by it from Sabará to therapids of Paulo Affonso. I need not describe it indetail; I will only say that, though not of thesafest description, it behaved itself, under all thecirc*mstances, well.

My crew numbered three—​old Vieira and his sons.Two stood in the bows with poles, which theypreferred as being easier to use than paddles. Thepaddles used in deep waters vary in shape every fewhundred miles. The men were mere landlubbers;they felt, or affected to feel, nervous at every obstacle.They had been rowing all their lives, and yet theyknew not how to back water; curious to say, thiswas everywhere the case down stream. They pulledwith all their might for a few minutes when theriver was rapid, so as to incur possible risks, andwhen the water was almost dead, they lay upon theiroars and lazily allowed themselves to be floated down.Thus, during the working day, between 7 a.m. and5 p.m., very little way was made. They had nosystem, nor would they learn any. The only thingenergetic about them was the way they performedupon the cow-horn, and with this they announcedarrival, saluted those on the banks, and generallyenjoyed the noise.

My first stage was between Sabará and Santa Lusia.The stream was deeply encased; the reaches were short,and we seemed to run at the bluffs, where high ribscame down to the bed and cut the bottom into verysmall bends. The most troublesome feature was theshallow places where the bed broadened; we groundedwith unpleasant regularity. This part also aboundedin snags. The tortuous bed, never showing a mileahead, prevented anything like waves, though thewind was in our teeth. At this time of year we sawthe Old Squaw’s River at its worst; there was aminimum of water and a maximum of contrary wind.On the other hand, it was the “moon of flowers”;the poor second growth teemed with bunches ofpurple beauty, and the hill-tops were feathered bypalms.

At Jaguára the people cried, “You’ll never reachTrahiras,” deriding the Eliza. Indeed, we seemedlikely to waste much time. However, we crept onsurely, if slowly. As evening approached the weatherwaxed cool and clear, and the excessive evaporationgave the idea of great dryness; my books curled up, itwas hardly possible to write, and it reminded me ofthe Persian Gulf, where water-colours cannot be usedbecause the moisture is absorbed from the brush.

The first view of Santa Lusia was very pleasing;a tall ridge about a mile from the stream was cappedwith two double-towered churches, divided by fine,large, whitewashed houses and rich vegetation, withpalms straggling down to the water. Here I landedand made my way to the hotel, which was a mosttumble-down hole, and after supper inspected SantaLusia. It was formerly a centre of the gold diggings,but at this time possessed nothing of interest.

The next morning was delicious, and the face ofNature was as calm as if it could show no other expression.The sword-like rays of the sun, radiating fromthe unseen centre before it arose in its splendour, soondispersed the thin mists that slept tranquilly upon thecool river-bed. We shot the Ponte Grande de SantaLusia to Cruvello and the backwoods. The bridgewas the usual long, crooked affair, with twelve trusses,or trestles, in the water and many outside, showingthat the floods are here extensive. The girders arerarely raised high enough, and an exceptional inundationsweeps them away, leaving bare poles bristling in thebed and dangerous piles under water.

About two miles below Santa Lusia the water becamedeeper and the country changed. The right, oreastern, side was rough and hilly, with heights huggingthe bed. Near the other bank the land was morelevel, and the soil showed a better complexion, bywhich both sugar-cane and timber profited. Inanother hour we sighted the first cotton plantation,and right well it looked. There was indeed a mineof neglected wealth in cotton and fish along, and in,this river, and the more I saw of it the richer I foundit. The hills were clothed with thin brown-greygrass, looking in places as if they were frosty withhoar, and always profusely tasselled.

Presently another bend showed certain white linesbetween the river-fringe of trees, and this was theabode of the friaresses. We made fast to a gap inthe clay bank and landed. At first I was refusedeven coffee, and there was no inn. I thereforesent my card and letter to the reverend vicar,and he at once called upon me, ordered dinner,and took me off to see the lions, of which themost interesting was the sisterhood, or infirmary,of the friaresses before named. The reverendmother, rather a pretty person, received us at thedoor, kissed the padre’s hand, and led the way tothe little college chapel, white and gold with frescoedceiling. We visited the dormitories; the galleries werelong, the room was large and airy. The infirmarycontained one sister and four invalid girls. Thethirty-six reverend women were dressed in whiteveils and petticoats, with black scapulars in front,and over all a blue cloak. I spent the night at thisplace on the raft; the moon and stars were unusuallybright, and the night was delightfully clear and cool.

We set out next morning at seven o’clock, andproceeded without much adventure all that day andnight, finally arriving at Jaguára, at which hospitableplace I spent pleasant days, whilst another crew wasengaged and arrangments for my reaching Diamantinawere being completed.

After a week at Jaguára I embarked again. Therewas very little to record day by day of the voyagefrom Jaguára to Diamantina. The river was everchanging: sometimes we passed picturesque cliffs;sometimes we went through gorgeous forests; withmasses of vegetation rolling and bulging down thebank; sometimes the currents changed into rapids,and the bed of the river was studded with islets ofcalcareous stone, dangerous during half-flood.

The most dangerous experience was when we shotthe rapids at Cachoeira Grande. People crowdeddown to the yellow bank to stare and to frighten usabout them, and the dialogue was somewhat inthis style:--

“Do you know the rapids?” we inquired.

“We know them!”

“Will you pilot us?”

“We will not pilot you!”

“For money?”

“Not for money!”

“And why?”

“Because we are afraid of them!”

This was spoken as the juniors ran along the banklike ostriches or the natives of Ugogo.

Luckily for us, for the Cachoeira Grande was nojoke, we found, just before we came to the rapids,on the right bank a small crowd keeping holiday.The men carried guns in their hands, and wore pistolsand daggers under their open jackets; the women werein full dress, brilliant as rainbows, with blood-redflowers in their glossy, crows’-wing hair. Of thedozen, not one was fairly white. Here we pickedup a pilot or two who came on board. They weremen of few words; they saluted us civilly andpushed off.

The beginning of the end was the little rapidof the Saco Grande, or “Big Bend,” where the riverbed, turning sharply from south-east to north-west,made parallel reaches. To avoid the rock-pier on theleft we floated stern foremost down along the rightbank, and managed the rapid with some difficulty.Presently we turned to the east-south-west, and facedthe dreaded Cachoeira Grande, which is formed byanother sharp bend in the bed, winding to the north-east.The obstacles were six very flat projections of darkstone on the right bank and four on the left, andcunning is required to spiral down between them.We began by passing the port of No. 1, then wemade straight for No. 2 to the left; here, by pushingfuriously up stream, the Eliza was forced over tothe right, was swung round by main force of arm,and was allowed to descend, well in hand, to withina few feet of No. 4, which rises right in the front.Finally, leaving this wrecker to starboard, we hit theusual triangle-head, with plenty of water breakingoff both arms. The descent occupied sixteen minutes.

After many congratulations our friends the pilotsmade a show of taking leave to do some importantbusiness, which proved on inquiry to mean “doingcompliments.” As the dangers were not yet over,I produced a keg of restilo; it was tasted, andpronounced very hot in the mouth, and the Major—​thatis, myself—​became so irresistible that they allswore they would accompany me to the Rio de SãoFrancisco, or anywhere. The poles were twirled againand wielded with a will. We left to port brokenwater and an ugly stone, a hogsback; then we crossedto scrape acquaintance with a sunken mass in front.

The end was the Cachoeira das Gallinhas, to whichwe presently came. We gave a wide berth to a rockwell on the right bank and stuck to the left side.Here was a narrow gate, formed by two rock-piersprojecting from the shores, and in such places“cordelling” was advisable. The men sprang intothe water with loud cries, and pulled at the hawsertill the current had put us in proper position. Theythen pushed off and sprang on board before we couldmake much way. The “Rapid of the Hens” occupiedus nine minutes.

A second dram of the “wild stuff” was then givenand our friends the pilots blessed us fervently; theyprayed for us, and unintelligibly invoked for us theprotection of the Virgin and all the saints. Theylanded with abundant tripping and stumbling, carryingwith them many dollars and a bottle of the much-prizedrestilo. I had every reason to be grateful tothem, for they saved me an immense amount oftrouble; but, shortly afterwards, reports of certain“little deaths,” in which they had been actively concerned,showed me that they were not exactly lambs.

After this we proceeded easily down the river toBom Successo, from which point I intended to visitDiamantina City. I had to land here and make myway to Diamantina on mule-back, not an easy journey,involving, as it did, a day and a night. Diamantina,or the Diamond City, was peculiarly situated, almostprecipitous to the east and south-west, while thenorthern part was a continuation of the broken prairie-land.I stayed here as the guest of Sr. João Ribeiro,a diamond merchant, and wealthy and hospitable. Ispent at this place three days and thoroughly inspectedit. The impression left upon me was most agreeable;the men were the frankest, and the women the prettiestand most amiable, of any it had been my fortune tomeet in Brazil; nothing could exceed their hospitality.I will not describe my visit to the diamond diggings,as I have done so fully elsewhere, and this brief sketchmust be mainly devoted to my voyage down the river.I will only say that I found it most interesting, and,so far from the diamonds being exhausted, it seemedto me that they were only at the beginning of a supplywhich might be described as inexhaustible.

On the eleventh day I returned to Bom Successowith great regret, and at 9.30 a.m. on September 7thI dismissed my trooper and his mules, and pushedout of the creek down the river towards Coroa doGallo. I met with several small troubles, such aslow sandbanks, snags, and stones, but managed topush through to the Coroa do Gallo, where I spentthe night. The previous day had been burninghot, but when we set forth the weather had becometemperate, and, indeed, on all this journey therewas nothing much to complain of on account of theclimate. We drifted on day after day through a softand balmy atmosphere, disturbed ever and anon bygusts of wind and vapours; sometimes distant sheetlightning flashed from the mists massing around thehorizon, the smoke of the prairie fires rose in columns,and they might have been mistaken for the fumes ofa steamer by night. Those that were near glowed likelive coals, whilst the more distant gleamed blue.

I landed and stayed a day or two at Guaicuhy, butthere was nothing very important to record. I wasstrongly advised to visit the rapids of the Pirapora,which are said to be, after the Casca d’Anta at thebeginning and the Paulo Affonso at the end, the importantfeature upon the Rio de São Francisco. Theword means a “fish leap,” and is applied to places onmore than one Brazilian river. With a flush of joy Ifound myself upon this glorious stream of the future,whose dimensions here measure seven hundred feet.I had seen nothing to compare with it since my visitto the African Congo.

Two new men were hired to guide us in the“tender” canoe, as we wished to shoot the rapids.We eyed curiously the contrasts of the new streamwith that which we had lately left. Here the waterwas of a transparent green; the river seemed to breakeven from the stiff clay, which was in places cavingin. After nine hours of hard work we doubled awooded projection from the left bank, and sightedthe Cachoeira of the Pirapora. The Pirapora differedfrom anything I had yet viewed; it was, in fact, partlya true fall, divided into two sections, and we trembledto think what the Paulo Affonso might be. Gladto stretch our cramped limbs, we landed on the rightbank, and proceeded to inspect the rapids from above.The upper rapid, six feet high, seemed more formidablethan the lower of about seven feet. Near the rightbank these form true falls; they are also garnishedby little ladders, miniature cascades rushing furiouslydown small, narrow, tortuous, channels, between theteeth of jagged stone-saws, and tumbling over dwarfbuttresses. Thus the total height between the upperand the lower “smooths” is thirteen feet. Abovethe break the stream narrows to 1,800 feet, whilstbelow it broadens to 3,500 feet. During the dryweather the fair-way, if it may be so called, is athin sheet of water near the western bank: no raft,however, can pass; canoes must be unladen andtowed up. Without a good pilot there is imminentrisk.

A storm was gathering, and as we began thedescent lightning flashed from the east and south, andfrom all the horizon, followed by low rumblings ofthunder. Presently our cranky canoe was struckby the gale, one of the especial dangers of the SãoFrancisco. The east wind was heard roaring fromafar, and as it came down upon the stream, whitewaves rose after a few minutes, subsiding as easilywhen the gale had blown itself out. My men preferredthe leeward bank, upon which the blast broke, leavingthe water below comparatively dead, and thus theyescaped the risk of falling trees. The surface ofthe central channel being now blocked by the furiouswind, a backwater during our ascent bore us swiftlydown. It was very dark at 7.30, when we landedand climbed the steep and slippery bank. The thundergrowled angrily and heavy rain fell, fortunately upona tight roof. This was the first wet weather that Ihad experienced since July 21st.

The Pirapora had been on the São Francisco myterminus ad quem, and now it was a quo, the restof the voyage being down stream. When we startedin the morning the weather was still surly from theeffects of last night’s scolding, but the air was transparentand clear; the books no longer curled withdrought, and a dose from the quinine bottle wasjudged advisable. We were evidently at the breakof the rainy season. It was noon before the Elizawas poled off from the bank of the Guaicuhy, andturned head downwards into the great stream. Wedrifted on from day to day until we arrived at SãoRomao, a God-forgotten place, which I explored;but it was not particularly hospitable, so I returnedat evening and spent the night on the Eliza,lighted the fire, drew down the awning, and keptout as much of the drifting rain and cold, shiftingwind as possible. It was not easy to sleep for thebabel of sounds, for the Romanenses were decidedlyill-behaved and uncivilised, and made night hideouswith their orgies.

We set out again next day, furling the awning,through the drenching rain. We had a day ofwind and water, and then another of very hot sun,and so we went on to Januaria, where I met withfrank and ready hospitality. After staying herea night, we took the water again, and proceededthrough a small hurricane to Carunhanha, wherealso I was well received, but had to sleep on boardthe raft—​another night of devilry. Cold wind fromthe north rushed through the hot air, precipitatinga deluge in embryo; then the gale chopped roundto the south, and produced another, and fiercer,down-pour. A treacherous lull, and all began again,the wind howling and screaming from the east. Thethunder roared and the lightning flashed in alldirections; the stream rose in wavelets, which washedover the Eliza, and shook her by the bumping ofthe “tender” canoe. We did not get much sleepthat night.

I will not further describe my voyage day afterday in the Eliza. Suffice it to say, at VarzéaRedonda, a wretched village just before we cameto the Paulo Affonso, I dismantled the Eliza andpaid off the crew. I was asked to stay on land,but, as I wished to see everything settled, I slepton board, and regretted my resolution. The nightwas furious, and the wind raised waves that nearlybeat the old raft to pieces. My men, having reachedthe end of their work, had the usual boatman’s spree—​harddrinking, extensive boasting, trials of strength,and quarrelling, intermixed with singing, shouting,extemporising verses, and ending in the snores andsnorts of Bacchic sleep. I found them very troublesome;but the next morning they shed tears ofcontrition. I saw them disappear without regret; theonly face, indeed, that I was sorry to part from wasthat of the good old pilot.

The next step was to procure animals and men totake me to the Great Rapids. I had great difficultyin getting these, and when the party was made upit consisted of the worst men, the worst mules, andthe worst equipments I had ever seen in Brazil. Intwo days and two nights I arrived at Paulo Affonso,the King of the Rapids.

I shall never forget my first approach to it. Inthe distance we heard a deep, hollow sound, softwithal, like the rumbling of a distant storm, butit seemed to come from below the earth, as if we trodupon it. After another mile the ground appearedto tremble at the eternal thunder. A little laterwe came upon the rapids. Paulo Affonso has wellbeen called the Niagara of Brazil.

The quebrada, or gorge, is here two hundredand sixty feet deep; in the narrowest part it is chokedto a minimum breadth of fifty-one feet. It is filledwith what seems not water but froth and milk, adashing and dazzling, a whirling and churningsurfaceless mass, which gives a wondrous study offluid in motion. Here the luminous whiteness ofthe chaotic foam-crests, hurled in billows and breakersagainst the blackness of the rock, is burst into flakesand spray that leap half-way up the immuring trough.Then the steam boils over and canopies the tremendousscene. In the stilly air of dull, warm grey, themists surge up, deepening still more the dizzy fallthat yawns under our feet.

The general effect of the picture, and the same maybe said of all great cataracts, is the realised idea ofpower—​of power tremendous, inexorable, irresistible.The eye is spell-bound by the contrast of this impetuousmotion, this wrathful, maddened haste to escape, withthe frail stedfastness of the bits of rainbow, hoveringabove, with the “Table Rock,” so solid to the tread,and with the placid, settled stillness of the plain andhillocks, whose eternal homes seem to be here. Magic,I may observe, is in the atmosphere of Paulo Affonso;it is the natural expression of the glory and the majesty,the splendour and the glamour of the scene, whichGreece would have peopled with shapes of beauty, andwhich in Germany would be haunted by choirs of flyingsylphs and dancing Undines.

I sat over the cataract until convinced it was notpossible to become one with the waters; what at firstseemed grand and sublime had at last a feeling of awe,too intense to be in any way enjoyable. The rest ofthe day I spent in camp, where the minor troubles oflife soon asserted their power. The sand raised bythe strong and steady trade-wind was troublesome, andthe surface seething in the sun produced a constantdrought. We were now at the head of the funnel, thevast ventilator which guides the gale to the Riode São Francisco. At night the sky showed a fast-driftingscud, and an angry blast dispersed the gatheringclouds of blood-thirsty mosquitos. Our lullaby wasthe music of Paulo Affonso.

The next day I visited the falls again and exploredthem thoroughly, going down from the heights aboveto the base beneath, from which the finest view of thefalls was to be obtained. It was a grand climax to myvoyage down the São Francisco.

My task was done; I won its reward, and mystrength passed from me. Two days of tediousmountain riding led to the Porto das Piranhas, andfrom here I descended the lower Rio de São Franciscomore leisurely, and, when that was done, I finally returnedviâ Rio de Janeiro to Santos (São Paulo), aliasthe Wapping of the Far West, and took up myconsular duties once again.

THROUGH SYRIA TO PALMYRA1870

THROUGH SYRIA TO PALMYRA

1870

I  AM “partant pour la Syrie,” and though it is comparativelynear, we find the journey long. Wetake steamer to Alexandria, and there await the firstvessel going northwards. We embark in a foreignsteamer, much preferring the Russian, and after passing,perhaps without sighting, the base of the Nile Deltaand the northern terminus of the Suez Canal, we runrapidly up the coast of the Holy Land. We are nearenough to see certain of its features, and to feel athrobbing of the heart. Here is Ascalon, the “Brideof Syria,” still redolent of the days of the lion-heartedking and of the right royal Saláh-el-Din. There isJaffa, the Joppa ever full of the memories of St. Peter.We touch there, but we may not land unless the seais of the calmest. Now we steam along the site ofCæsarea, the busy city of Herod Agrippa, convertedinto the most silent waste of ruins that it has ever beenour fate to look upon. There we cast anchor for a fewdays, at the second station, Hazfa, opposite St. Jeand’Acre, that “Key of Palestine” from the days of theCrusaders to the times of Bonaparte, Sir Sydney Smith,and Sir Charles Napier. From this point we swerverapidly past the brown headland of Carmel, type ofexcellent beauty to the Hebrew poet, past the whiteScala Tyrivrum, whose promontorium album might be afragment of the white cliffs of Albion, past the brightlittle town of Tyre, a phœnix rising a third time fromits ashes, and past Sidon and Lebanon, memorial namesengraved upon our childish hearts too deeply for timeor change ever to erase them from the memory of theman. So memorial, indeed, are all these regions thatthe traveller must keep watch and ward upon himself,under penalty of suffering from what I may call “HolyLand on the brain.” The essence of it consists inseeing all things, not as they are, but as they ought tobe; for instance, “hanging gardens” at Damascus,“Roman bridges” in Saracenic arches, and “beautifulblush marble” in limestone stained with oxide. Itwrings the hearts of its friends when sighting the Plainof Esdraelon, and in gazing upon a certain mound itexclaims:

What hill is like to Tabor’s hill in beauty and in grace?

This clairvoyance, or idealism, which makes menbabble of green fields where only dust meets theeye of sense is by no means an obscure disorderof the brain; on the contrary, it is rather aggressiveand violent, whilst writers of guides and handbooksappear abnormally exposed to it. Hence those whoprepare for a pilgrimage to the Holy Land musttemper information and description with many agrain of salt, or they will undergo no little disappointment.Ideal pleasures ever excel those of reality;but in this case there is an extra and inordinate supplyof ideality.

We disembark at the hopeless, wind-lashed roadsteadof Beyrut, within the limits of the Land of Promise,but never yet included in the Land of Possession.The trim little harbour-town, seated upon its slopingamphitheatre, converted into “Colossia Julia AugustaFelix Berytus” must have been a local Pompeii inthe fourth and fifth centuries, and its feminine bustwas found associated with the medallions of Alexandriaand Halicarnassus. During those ages the Romanand Egyptian galleys jostled one another in the innerport, which now looks like a dock; their palacesand villas covered the slopes with pillars andcolonnades; paradises and gardens contrasted withproud fanes rising upon well-wooded and well-wateredpeaks around—​fanes dedicated to gods and goddessesnow remembered only by the classical dictionaries.In those days, students of philosophy and theology,of law and language, flocked to Berytus from themost distant lands. But the terrible earthquake ofA.D. 551, which laid waste a pleasant site, seems tohave been the turning-point of its destinies; theroadstead apparently became shallow, and, despitea noted miracle in the eighth century, Beyrut sawher glory depart for many a generation. At last,in the beginning of the nineteenth century, it hadsunk to its lowest, and the petty port, placed underthe unimportant Pashalate of Sidon, numbered barelyfive hundred souls.

Sir Charles Napier, the sailor, changed all that.In the autumn of 1840 he made Beyrut his headquarters,whence he and his gallant crews rangedthe hill country around and blockaded the ports,till the career of Ibrahim Pasha was unfortunatelycut short. Thereupon the hat began at once to takeprecedence of the turban, even of the green turban.The headquarters of the Pashalate were transferredfrom Sidon to Beyrut; European merchants establishedcountry houses; missionaries opened schools for bothsexes; the different consular corps contended forthe construction of roads and the abatement ofnuisances; whilst the port was regularly visited byfour lines of steamers. Briefly, Beyrut became theonly Europeanised place in Syria, and she will probablyremain so for many years.

The old part of the city still retains some marksof Orientalism; the old part, with its alleys, wynds,and closes, its wretched lanes, its narrow and slipperythoroughfares, resembling unroofed sewers, is peculiarlysombre and Syrian, full of dead men’s bones andall uncleanliness. Nothing can be meaner than theCustoms House, where millions of piastres annuallychange hands. Of the stately buildings which onceadorned it no traces remain but three granitemonolithic columns, still towering above modernmisery. But the new town which surrounds theancient archery is Levantine—​that is to say, almostItalian; the points of difference being a scatter ofminarets and a sprinkling of tropical vegetation, whichtells you that you are somewhat nearer the sun.There are houses and hospitals large enough eachto lodge its battalions; piano and bugle sounds catchthe ear; the carriage is taking the place of the horseand the mule—​here, as in South America, a suresign of civilisation; and Orientalism is essentiallyat a discount. You must not think of Beyrut asan Eastern city.

Life is easy and death is easier in these sub-tropicalregions. Men do little during six days, and carefullyrest on the seventh. For eight months they saunterthrough the tepid air of the Mediterranean seaboard;the other four are spent upon “the mountain”(i.e. Lebanon), whose pure, light air is a tonic.The little world of Beyrut rises rather late, and itsbusiness hours are but before the noontide breakfast,for here, as amongst the classics, the meals are twoper diem. They would be called by our grandfathersdinner and supper; we say breakfast and dinner.Then a little more work precedes a drive or a ride:the stroll is not unknown, the constitutional is.The evenings are spent either in a café or in visits,where whist at times puts in an appearance, anda profound stillness, like that of Lime Street, City,begins to reign about 10 p.m. The theatre hasnot been imported, although an enterprising SyrianChristian—​Moslems cannot originate such things—​has,after a visit to Italy, written several comediesin the classical style, unfortunately adopting theFrench rhymed couplet. The tea party, the littlemusic, and the soirée dansante, flourish in whatthe Beyrutines are pleased to call the “Paris ofSyria.” The jeunesse dorée, in patent leather boots,“boiled shirts,” fold collars, white ties, and lemon-colouredgloves, loves to don the sables which theEnglish gentleman affects. When he goes forthto make merry, he enters gloves in hand; he prefersround dances to square, and he imitates Europevery literally. But as the Romans kept up thetime-honoured and homely eggs as the end of theirrichest banquets, so the “golden youth” of Beyrutprefers the ugly and unpleasant fez or tarbush.For the rest, young Syria’s ambition is to marrya European wife, and he does not always get thebest of that bargain.

In these lands Society still preserves the fragmentarynature which belonged to the ancient world. Beyrut,the port, at the time whereof I write, is distant asingle day’s ride from Damascus, the capital of Syria,yet there is no trace of sympathy between the two,and the inland say of the seaboard city:

Again Damascus jeers:

Whereto Beyrut retorts:

Whilst “the lying of Damascus” is an illustration inthe mouth of every Beyrutine. We have a rhymeof the kind touching one—​

But Damascus says of herself, when describing aman who has became civilised: “He hath beenDamascus’d.” These sharp sayings, indeed, arenot confined to the capital and the port. As of oldupon the Sorrentine Plains, to speak of no otherplace, every town had a nickname, a rhyme, or atale attached to it, which “kinder ryled up” theinhabitants, so it is the case throughout modernSyria. Thus of Jerusalem men say, as of Meccah:

Her soil is sacred, her sons are soiled.

Of Tiberias, a town built of basalt:

Her stones are black, and her people are Jews.

Of the Naw’arinah, or people of the Auranitis (thegreat Hauran Valley), we are told that:

They thrice bewildered the Apostle of Allah [Mohammed].

The modern inhabitants of ancient Heliopolis, whereBurckhardt found the handsomest woman in Syria,is dubbed:

A Ba’albak bear.

The Halbem village near Damascus is a standingjoke with the witty citizens on account of the hugewoollen turbans, the loud voice, and the peculiardispositions of the people. They make “kass,” orlamp-wicks, for Damascus, and it is said that onone occasion, when their shaykh was imprisoned,they threatened, by withholding the supply, to keepthe city in total darkness. Also, as a bride was beingled home, mounted on an ass, when the doorwaywas found too low, the popular voice said that herhead should be cut off, till some local wise man ofGotham suggested that she might dismount.

Beyrut in my day was connected with Damascusby the only carriageable road in the Holy Land,which was supposed to boast of two others, the Jaffa-Jerusalemand the Alexandretto-Aleppo. These two,however, are utterly unfit for wheels, the reason beingthat they were laid out by native engineers andadministered by the Turks, a nation that has succeededin nothing but destruction. The distance is forty-sevenand a half geographical miles, prolonged to sixtyby the old road and to seventy-two by the new one.[8]

We could travel to Damascus by night coach orby day diligence, preferring the latter, which enablesus to see the land. At 4 a.m. we leave the harbour-town,and we shall reach our destination at 6 p.m.The section between the Mediterranean and Damascus,the sea and the Euphrates Desert, is an epitome ofSyria, which has been described to be an epitomeof the whole world; a volume might be easily writtenupon what is seen during that day’s journey. Aftera couple of miles through suburbs, cemeteries, andscattered villas, orchards of mulberry and olive,lanes hedged with prickly pear and dense clumpsof young stone-pines, the road begins to ascendthe westward, or maritime, slope of the Lebanon.It works gradually towards the left bank of the greatgorge called Wady Hammánah, in one of whosehamlets Lamartine lived and wrote. After sometwelve miles from the Beyrut Plain, we reach thewatershed of the Jurd, or Highlands of the Lebanon.Here we are about 5,500 feet above sea-level, andfeel immensely relieved, in fine weather at least,from the damp heat of the malarious seaboard, whichrobs the stranger of appetite and rest. The view,too, is charming: a glimpse of sparkling sea, a well-woodedsandstone region, and a long perspectiveof blue and purple chain and peak, cut and tornby valley, gorge, and ravine, scarring both flanksof the prism. Looking eastward, we sight for thefirst time that peculiar basaltic bed which givesrise to the Jordan, the Orontes, and the Litani (ariver of Tyre). It appears to be a volcanic depressionsunk in the once single range of secondary limestone,and splitting it into two parallel chains, the Libanusand the Anti-Libanus. Viewed from above it isa Spanish viga, a plain of wondrous wealth andfertility, whilst the surface appears smooth as a lake.It is, however, in places dangerously swampy, andthough raised some 2,500 to 3,000 feet above sea-level,it is an unwholesome and aguish site, alternatelyvery hot and very cold, curiously damp and distressinglydry. And the same may be said of Damascus,which has to the east the scorching desert, and tothe west mountains, mostly snowy: it is no wonderthat the old author called it the “windy.” But theclimate of Damascus is complicated by perhaps theworst and hardest water in Syria, by the exceedinguncleanliness of the place, and by the habits of thepopulation. To say that man can exist there at allspeaks volumes in his favour.

Rapidly we run down the eastern, or landward,counterslope of the Lebanon, remembering the anti-Jacobincouplet:

Before its lowest folds we find the fifth station,Shtóra; here, as it is now 10 a.m., we breakfast. Weat once realise what will be the bill of fare in theinterior. Bread? perhaps. Potatoes? possibly. Beefor veal? impossible. Pig? ridiculous. Little, in fact,but lean kid and lamb, mutton, and fowls whose breast-bonespierce their skins. Wine? yes—​dear and bad.Beer or porter, seltzer or soda? decidedly no. In thewinter game is to be had, woodco*ck and wild duck,hares and gazelles; but the diet is held to be heatingand bilious. Vegetables, however, are plentiful, and,during the season, fruit is abundant, with the usualdrawback in half-civilised lands: wall fruit is all butunknown, and, with the exception of the excellentgrapes and the unwholesome apricots, each kind lastsonly a few days.

After breakfast we spin by a straight road—​such asold Normandy knew and modern Canada still knows—​thebreadth of the valley. It is laid out in little fields,copiously irrigated. The little villages which stud theplain are, like those of Egypt, not of Syria, built onmounds, and black with clay plastered over the wicker-work.Every mile or so has some classical ruin: onour right a Báal temple; to our left Chalcis ad Belum;whilst six hours of slow riding northwards, or up thevalley, place you at immortal Báalbak, which the Greeksstill call Heliopolis.

A rising plane and a bend to the right land us atthe first of the Anti-Libanus. Instead of ascendingand descending this range, as we did with the Lebanonprism, we thread a ravine called by the Druzes theValley of Silk, from their favourite article of plunder.An easy up-slope leads to Sahlat Judaydah, the dwarfplateau about 3,600 feet high, where the watershedchanges from west to east; farther on to the wildgorge Wady el Karn (“of the Thorn”), so called fromits rich ribbings and the wreathing and winding of thebed. We find a stiff climb or a long zigzag at theAkabat el Tin (the Steep of Lime).

The descent of the steep ends with the Daurat elBillau (Zigzag of the Camel Thorn), and thence wefall into the Sahrat el Dimas, so called from a villagewhich may have borrowed a name from the penitentthief. This Sahara has been described with prodigiousexaggeration in order to set off by contrast the charmsof the so-termed “sublime Gorge of Abana,” to whichit leads. Measuring some ten kilometres, it is undoubtedlya rough bit of ground, dry as dust in thesummer, and in winter swept by raving winds andpiled with sleet and snow. At its eastern end theSahara at once dips into a deep, lateral gorge, whichfeeds, after rains, the Barada Valley, and here weremark that curious contrast of intense fertilitywith utter, hopeless barrenness which characterisesinner Spain. Life is in that thick line of the darkestand densest evergreen, which, smiling under the fierceand fiery sun-glare, threads the side of the valley, inthe wholesome perfume of the wild plants, and in thegush and murmur of waters making endless music.Death is represented by the dull grey formation standingup in tombstones, by the sterile yellow lime-rock,and by the chalk, blinding white; and the proportionof good to bad is as one to twenty. This verdure is,the Arabs say, a cooling to the eye of the beholder;it is like the aspect of the celadon-coloured sea thatbeats upon the torrid West African shores. With theauthor of that charming book “Eothen,” “you floatalong (for the delight is as the delight of bathing)through green, wavy fields and down into the coolverdure of groves and gardens, and you quench hoteyes in shade as though in deep, rushing waters.”

The beginning of the end is at the tenth and laststation, El Hamah, meaning the Head of the Valley,and we halt here for a cup of coffee. The next placeof note is Dummar; here we cross the Barada torrent.This place is, despite its low site and hot and cold air,a favourite for villas; and certain wealthy Damascususurers have here built large piles, as remarkable forthe barbarity of their outer frescoes as for the tawdrydecoration of the interior. The witty Damasceinescall them “traps,” because they are periodically letto high officials for other considerations than hire.And now, with its slate-coloured stream, garnished withweirs on our right, the valley becomes broader andmore important; the upper cliff’s are tunnelled intocut caves, Troglodyte dwellings and sepulchres of theancients; seven veins at high levels and at low levelsbranch off from the main artery; and, after passing anatural gateway formed by two shield-like masses ofrock, we suspect that Damascus is before us.

The first sight of Damascus was once famous intravel. But then men rode on horseback, andturned, a little beyond Damascus, sharply to the leftof the present line. They took what was evidentlythe old Roman road, and which is still, on accountof its being a short cut, affected by muleteers. Nowit is nothing but an ugly climb up sheet-rock androlling stones, with bars and holes dug by the armedhoof of many a generation. They then passedthrough El Zaarub (the Spout); this is the old way,sunk some ten feet deep in the rock till it resemblesan uncovered tunnel, and polished like glass bythe traffic and transit of ages. At its mouth yousuddenly turn a corner and see Damascus lying inpanorama, a few hundred feet below you. “A flintset in emeralds” is the Damascus citizen’s descriptionof what El Islam calls, and miscalls, the “smile ofthe Prophet” (Mohammed). Like Stambul, it isbeautiful from afar, as it is foul and sore within,morally and physically. The eye at once distinguishesa long head, the northern suburb “El Salituzzah”;a central nucleus, crescent-shaped and fronting thebed of the Barada; and a long tail, or southernsuburb, “El Maydan.” These three centres of whitewasheddwellings and skyline, fretted with dome andminaret, are surrounded and backed by a mass ofevergreen orchard, whose outlines are sharply definedby irrigation, whilst beyond the scatter of outlyingvillages, glare the sunburnt yellow and the parchedrich brown of the desert, whose light blue hillocksdefine the eastern horizon.

The prosaic approach by the French road showslittle beyond ruins and graveyards: Damascus outsideis a mass of graveyards, the “Great” and“Little Camps” of Constantinople, only withouttheir cypresses; whilst within it is all graveyardsand ruins, mixed with crowded and steaming bazaars.This world of graves reminds one of Job’s forlorn mandwelling “in desolate cities, and in houses which noman inhabiteth, which are ready to become heaps.”The Barada in olden times had its stone embankment;the walls are now in ruins. On our right is a ruinedbridge once leading to a large coffee-house, both alsoin ruins. As we advance we pass other ruins. Butthough it was prophesied that Damascus should bea “ruinous heap,” her position forbids annihilation.The second of Biblical cities, she has been destroyedagain and again; her houses have been levelled withthe ground, and the Tartar has played hockey with thehearts of her sons. Still she sits upon the easternfolds of the Anti-Libanus and on her gold-rolling river,boldly overlooking the desert at her base. Damascus,not Rome, deserves, if any does, to be entitled theEternal City.

I passed twenty-three months (October 1st, 1869,to August 20th, 1871), on and off, at this mostpicturesque and unpleasant of residences. It wasthen in the transitional state, neither of Asia nor ofEurope. To one who had long lived in the outerEast, a return to such an ambiguous state of thingswas utterly disenchanting. Hassan, digging or delvingin long beard and long clothes, looks more like anovergrown baby than the romantic being which yourfancies paint him. Fatima, with a coloured kerchief(not a nose-bag) over her face, possibly spotted forgreater hideousness, with Marseilles gloves and Frenchbottines of yellow satin, trimmed with fringe andbugles, protruding from the white calico which mightbe her winding-sheet, is an absurdity: she remindedme of sundry “kings” on the West African shore,whose toilet consists of a bright bandanna and achimney-pot hat, of the largest dimensions, colouredthe liveliest sky-blue.

The first steps to be taken at Damascus were topay and receive visits, to find a house, to hireservants, to buy horses, and, in fact, to settle ourselves.It proved no easy matter. Certain personshad amused themselves with spreading a report thatmy pilgrimage to Meccah had aroused Moslemfanaticism, and perhaps might cost me my life. They,as well as I, knew far better, so I was not surprisedat the kind and even friendly reception given to meby Emir Abdel Kadir, of Algerine fame, and by theDean of the great Cathedral el Amahi, the late ShaykhAbdahah el Halati. And I remember with satisfactionthat, to the hour of my quitting Damascus, theMoslems never showed for me any but the mostcordial feeling.

Other British consuls had been of a stay-at-homedisposition, seeing nothing beyond the length oftheir noses. I was of a roving one, and determinedto see all I could, and penetrate to the inner heartof Syria. To be shut up in Damascus was to be inprison; the breath of the desert was liberty. I soonwandered afield. One of my earliest excursions wasto Palmyra. Until the spring of 1870 a travellervisiting Syria for the express purpose, perhaps, ofseeing Palmyra, “Tadmor in the Wilderness,” afterbeing kept waiting for months at Damascus, hadto return disappointed. Only the rich could affordthe large Bedouin escort, for which even six thousandfrancs and more have been demanded. Add to thisthe difficulties, hardships, and dangers of the journey,the heat of the arid desert, want of water, chancesof attack, the long forced marches by night and hidingby day, ending with a shabby halt of forty-eight hoursat a place for which so many sacrifices had beenmade, and where a fortnight is the minimum required.

Since the beginning of the last century the Portehas had in view a military occupation of the caravanroute between Damascus and the Euphrates. “TheTurk will catch up your best hare on the back ofa lame donkey,” say the Arabs, little thinking whathigh praise they award to the conquering race. Thecordon militaire was to extend from Damascus,viâ Jayrud, Karyatayn, Palmyra, and Sukhnah, toDaye on the great rim. The wells were to becommanded by block houses, the roads to be clearedby movable columns, and thus the plundering Bedouin,who refuse all allegiance to the Sultan, would bekept, perforce, in the dan, or desert, between theeasternmost offsets of the Anti-Libanus and thepitch uplands of Nijd. This project was apparentlyrescued from the fate of good intentions by OsmanBey, a Hungarian officer who had served the Portesince 1848. He moved from Hamah with a bodyof some 1,600 men—​enough to cut his way throughhalf the vermin in Araby the Unblest. Presently,after occupying Palmyra, building barracks, andrestoring the old Druze Castle, he proceeded eastwardto Sukhnah, whence he could communicate withthe force expected to march westward from Baghdad.The welcome intelligence was hailed with joy: Palmyra,so long excluded from the Oriental tour, lay opento the European traveller; half a step had beentaken towards a Euphrates Valley Railway; atDamascus men congratulated themselves upon thenew line of frontier, which was naturally expectedto strengthen and to extend the limits of Syria; andthe merchant rejoiced to learn that his caravan wouldbe no longer liable to wholesale plunder.

A fair vision, doomed soon to fade! After sixmonths or so of occupation, Osman Bey, whosem*n were half starving, became tired of Palmyra, andwas recalled to Damascus. The garrison was reducedto two hundred men under a captain, whose onlyfriend was the raki bottle, and the last I saw ofthe garrison was his orderly riding into Hauran,with the huge, empty demijohns dangling at his saddle-bow.The Bedouin waxed brave, and, in the springof 1871, I was obliged to send travellers to Palmyraby a long circuit, viâ the north and the north-west.[9]

A certain official business compelled me to visitKaryatayn, which is within jurisdiction of Damascus,and my wife resolved to accompany me. In thislittle enterprise I was warmly seconded by the Vicomtede Perrochel, a French traveller and author, who hadtwice visited Damascus in the hope of reachingTadmor, and by M. Ionine, my Russian colleague.The Governor-General, the Field Marshal commandingthe army of Syria, and other high officials, lentus their best aid. We engaged a pair of dragomen,six servants, a cook, and eight muleteers; twelvemules and eight baggage-asses to carry tents andcanteen, baggage and provisions; and we rode ourown horses, being wrongly persuaded not to takedonkeys—​on long marches they would have beena pleasant change. We were peculiarly unfortunatein the choice of head dragoman, a certain AntonWardi, who had Italianised his name to Riza.Originally a donkey-boy at Beyrut, he made, by“skinning” sundry travellers, some 80,000 francsin ten years. He was utterly spoiled by hisFrench friends, M. de Sauley and M. de Perrochel;he had also dragomaned the then Princess Amadeo,who, in return for his mean conduct, had promisedhim, and afterwards sent him, greatly to thedisgust of every Italian gentleman, the Order ofthe Rose. This “native gentleman,” the type ofthe ignoble petit bourgeois of Syria, had been trustedwithout any contract having been made. He chargedus a hundred francs per diem, and the others each fiftyfrancs and forty francs. When the bill was producedfor settlement, it proved to be a long list of des extras:everything was un extra; two bottles of cognac,reported broken, appeared as des extras; even thewater-camels were des extras. The fact was, he hadallowed, when galloping about the country, somefrancs to fall from his pocket, and he resolved thatles extras should replace them.

We altogether regretted the assistance of Mohammed,Shaykh of the Mezrab tribe, who had systematicallyfleeced travellers for a score of years. He demandedtwo napoleons a head for his wretched camels,sending a score when only one was wanted; likeall other chiefs, he would not guarantee his protégés,either in purse or person, against enemies, but onlyagainst his own friends; he allowed them but twodays at Palmyra; he made them march twenty,instead of fifteen, hours between Karyatayn and theirdestination; he concealed the fact that there are wellsthe whole way, in order to make them hire camelsand buy water-skins; and, besides harassing themwith night marches, he organised sham attacks, inorder to make them duly appreciate his protection.I rejoice to say that Mohammed’s occupation has sincegone; his miserable tribe was three times plunderedwithin eighteen months, and, instead of fighting, hefell back upon the desert. May thus end all whooppose their petty interests to the general good—​allthat would shut roads instead of opening them! Witha view of keeping up his title to escort travellers,he sent with us a clansman upon a well-bred mareand armed with the honourable spear. But M. dePerrochel hired the mare; the crestfallen man wasput upon a baggage-mare, and the poor spear wascarried by a lame donkey.

Armed to the teeth, we set out in a chorus ofgroans and with general prognostications of evil.Ours was the first party since M. Dubois d’Anguswas dangerously wounded, stripped, and turned outto die of hunger, thirst, and cold, because he couldnot salary the inevitable Bedouin. It would, doubtless,have been the interest of many and the delight ofmore to see us return in the scantiest of costumes;consequently a false report generally flew abroad thatwe had been pursued and plundered by the Bedouin.

The first night was passed under canvas near aruined khan in the fifth valley plain east of the Syrianmetropolis. The weather became unusually cold thenext morning when we left the foggy lowland andturned to the north-east in order to cross the ridgyline of hills, which, offsetting from the Anti-Libanus,runs from Damascus toward the desert, and afterwardssweeps round to Palmyra. The line of travel wasa break in the ridge. Then, gently descending, wefell into a northern depression, a section of thatextensive valley in the Anti-Libanus, which, undera variety of names, runs nearly straight north-east(more exactly, 60°), to Palmyra. Nothing can besimpler than the geography of the country. Thetraveller cannot lose his way in the Palmyra Valleywithout crossing the high and rugged mountainswhich hem it in on both sides, and, if he is attackedby raiders, he can easily take refuge, and laugh atthe Arab goatees. During the time of our journeythe miserable little robber clans sh*tai and Ghiyashad completely closed the country five hours’ ridingto the east of Damascus, whilst the Sorbai and theAnergah bandits were making the Merj a battlefieldand were threatening to burn down the peacefulvillages. Even as we crossed the pass we weresaddened by the report that a troop of Bedouin hadthe day before murdered a wretched peasant withineasy sight of Damascus. This state of things was anational scandal to the Porte, which, of course, wasnever allowed to know the truth.

We resolved to advance slowly, to examine everyobject, and to follow the most indirect paths. Henceour march to Palmyra occupied eight days; we returned,however, in four with horses that called loudlyfor a week’s rest. The regular stations are as follows:—​

On the second day we dismissed our escort, oneofficer and two privates of irregular cavalry, who wereworse than useless, and we slept at the house of DaasAgha, hereditary Chief of Jayrud. A noted sabre, andable to bring one hundred and fifty lances into the field,he was systematically neglected by the authorities,because supposed to be friendly with foreigners.Shortly after my departure he barbarously torturedtwo wretched Arabs, throwing them into a pit full offire, and practising upon them with his revolver.Thereupon he was at once taken into prime favour,and received a command.

Daas Agha escorted us from Jayrud with ten of hiskinsmen mounted upon their best mares. In the uplandvalley we suffered severely from cold, and thesleety sou’wester which cut our faces on the returnwas a caution.

At Karyatayn, which we reached on the fifth day,Osman Bey, who was waiting for rations, money,transport, in fact, everything, offered us the mostfriendly welcome, and I gave official protection toShaykh Faris, in connection with the English post atBaghdad. The former detached with us eighty bayonetsof regulars and twenty-five sabres of Irregulars, commandedby two officers. This body presently put toflight anything in the way of Bedouin; a war partyof two thousand men would not have attacked us; andI really believe that a band of thirty Englishmen armedwith carbines and revolvers could sweep clean theDesert of the Euphrates from end to end.

At Karyatayn we hired seventeen camels to carrywater. This would have been a complete waste ofmoney had we gone, like other travellers, by the Darbel Sultain, or High Way. Some three hours’ ride tothe right, or south, of the road amongst the hillsbounding the Palmyra Valley is a fine cistern (IbexFountain), where water is never wanting. There is,however, a still more direct road viâ the remains of anaqueduct and a river in the desert. This short cutfrom Karyatayn to Palmyra may be covered in twenty-fourhours of camel walking, fifteen of horse walking,and twelve by dromedary or hard gallop. Travellerswould start at 6.30 or 7 a.m., and encamp after beingout from twelve to thirteen hours; but this includesbreakfast and sundry halts, sometimes to inspectfigures, real or imaginary, in the distance, at othertimes to indulge in a “spurt” after a gazelle or awild boar.

We chose, however, the little-known Baghdad, oreastern, road. The next day we rested at a largedeserted khan, and on the eighth we made ourentrance into Palmyra, where we were hospitablyreceived by Shaykh Faris. Our muleteers, for theconvenience of their cattle, pitched their tents close to,and east of, the so-called Grand Colonnade, a malariousand unwholesome site. They should have encampedamongst the trees at a threshing-floor near three palms.Travellers may be strongly advised not to lodge in thenative village, whose mud huts, like wasps’ nests, areall huddled within the ancient Temple of the Sun, orthey may suffer from fever or ophthalmia. The waterof Tadmor is sulphurous, like Harrogate, the climateis unhealthy, and the people are ragged and sickly.May there, as in most parts of the northern hemisphere,is the best travelling-season, and in any but aphenomenal year the traveller need not fear to encounter,as we did, ice and snow, siroccos and furioussou’westers.

If asked whether Palmyra is worth all this trouble,I should reply “No” and “Yes.” No, if you merelygo there, stay two days, and return, especially aftersighting noble Báalbak. Certainly not for the GrandColonnade of weather-beaten limestone, by a stretch ofcourtesy called marble, which, rain-washed and earthquake-shaken,looks like a system of galleries. Notfor the Temple of the Sun, the building of a Romanemperor, a second-rate affair, an architectural evidenceof Rome’s declining days. Yes, if you would studythe site and the environs, which are interesting andonly partially explored, make excavations, and collectcoins and relics, which may be bought for a song.

The site of Palmyra is very interesting; she standsbetween the mountains and the sea; like Damascus,she sits upon the eastern slope of the Anti-Libanus,facing the wilderness, but unhappily she has a drytorrent bed, the Wady el Sayl, instead of a rushingBarada. She is built upon the shore cape, where thesandy sea breaks upon its nearest headlands. Thissea is the mysterious Wilderness of the Euphrates,whose ships are camels, whose yachts are high-bredmares, and whose co*ck-boats are mules and asses.She is on the very threshold of the mountains, whichthe wild cavalry cannot scour, as they do the levelplain. And her position is such that we have notheard the last of the Tadmor, or, as the Arabs callher, Tudmur. Nor will it be difficult to reviveher. A large tract can be placed under cultivation,where there shall be protection for life and property;old wells exist in the ruins; foresting the highlandsto the north and west will cause rain; and the aqueductsin the old days may easily be repaired.

I am unwilling to indulge in a description of themodern ruin of the great old depôt, which has employedso many pens. But very little has been said concerningthe old tomb-towers, which have taken at Palmyrathe place of Egyptian pyramids. Here, as elsewherein ancient Syria, sepulture was extramural, and everysettlement was approached by one or more Viâ Appia,much resembling that of ancient Rome. At Palmyrathere are, or, rather, were, notably two: one (south-west)upon the high road to Damascus; the other,north-west of the official or monumental city, formed,doubtless, the main approach from Hauran andHamah. The two are lined on both sides withthose interesting monuments, whose squat, solidforms of gloomy and unsquared sandstone contrastremarkably with the bastard classical and Romanarchitecture, meretricious in all its details, and glitteringfrom afar in white limestone. Inscriptions in thePalmyrian character prove that they date from aboutA.D. 2 and 102; but they have evidently beenrestored, and this perhaps fixes the latest restoration.It is highly probable that the heathen method ofburial declined under the Roman rule, especiallyafter A.D. 130, when the Great Half-way Houseagain changed its name to Adrianopolis. Still,vestiges of the old custom are found in the Hauranand in the Druze Mountain west of the great valley,extending deep into the second century, when, it isbelieved, Gassanides of Damascus had abandonedtheir heathen faith for Christianity. I found in thetombs, or cells, fragments of mummies, and these,it is suspected, were the first ever brought to England.Almost all the skulls contained date-stones, more orless, and a peach stone and an apricot stone werefound under similar circ*mstances. At Shathah wepicked up in the mummy-towers almond shells withthe sharp ends cut off and forming baby cups.

There are three tomb-towers at Palmyra stillstanding, and perhaps likely to yield good results.The people call them Kasr el Zaynah (Pretty Palace),Kasr el Azin (Palace of the Maiden), and Kasr elArus (Palace of the Bride). They number fourand five stories, but the staircases, which run upthe thickness of the walls, are broken, and so arethe monolithic slabs which form the lower floors.Explorers, therefore, must take with them ropes andhooks, ladders which will reach to eighty feet, planksto act as bridges, and a short crowbar. We had noneof these requirements, nor could the wretched villageprovide them. I have little doubt that the upperstories would be found to contain bones, coins, andpottery, perhaps entire mummies.

The shortness of our visit allowed me only a dayand a half to try the fortune of excavation at Palmyra.It was easy to hire a considerable number of labourersat two and a half piastres a head per diem—​say 6d.—​whenin other places the wages would be at least double.Operations began (April 15th) at the group oftomb-towers bearing west-south-west from the greatTemple of the Sun: I chose this group because itappeared the oldest of the series. The fellahs, orpeasants, know it as Kusin Ahi Sayl (Palaces ofthe Father of a Torrent); and they stare when toldthat these massive buildings are not royal residencesbut tombs. Here the tombs in the several stages wereeasily cleared out by my forty-five coolies, who hadnothing but diminutive picks and bars, grain-lugs andbody-cloths, which they converted into buckets forremoving sand and rubbish. But these cells and thoseof the adjoining ruins had before been ransacked, andthey supplied nothing beyond skulls, bones, andshreds of mummy cloth, whose dyes were remarkablybrilliant.

The hands were then applied to an adjoining mound:it offered a tempting resemblance to the undulationsof ground which cover the complicated chamberedcatacombs already laid open, and into one of which,some years ago, a camel fell, the roof having givenway. After reaching a stratum of snow-white gypsum,which appeared to be artificial, though all hands agreedthat it was not, we gave up the task, as time pressedso hard. The third attempt laid open the foundationof a house, and showed us the well, or rain-cistern,shaped, as such reservoirs are still in the Holy Land,like a soda-water bottle. The fourth trial was moresuccessful; during our absence the workmen cameupon two oval slabs of soft limestone, each with its kit-catin high relief. One was a man with straightfeatures, short, curly beard, and hair disposed, asappears to have been the fashion for both sexes, inthree circular rolls. The other was a feminine bust,with features of a type so exaggerated as to resemblethe negro. A third and similar work of art wasbrought up, but the head had been removed. It wouldbe hard to explain the excitement caused by thesewonderful discoveries; report flew abroad that goldimages of life-size had been dug up, and the leastdisposed to exaggeration declared that chests full ofgold coins and ingots had fallen to our lot.

On the next morning we left Palmyra, and, aftera hard gallop which lasted for the best part of fourdays, we found ourselves, not much the worse forwear, once more at Damascus.

[8] Burton writes of Syria in 1870. The journey from Beyrut toDamascus has now been made easy by the opening of the railway.The line rises some four thousand feet, crosses two ranges of mountainson the Lebanon, and passes through some beautiful scenery. Aftertraversing the Plain of Bakaa through the Anti-Lebanon, the railwayenters the Yahfâfeh, continuing to Sûk Wady Barada, the ancientAbila, where is seen the rock-cut aqueducts made by Zenobia toconvey the water of the Abana to Palmyra; then, passing the beautifulfountain of Fijeh and the remains of an old temple, the train followsthe River Abana until it arrives at Damascus.—​W. H. W.

[9] The journey from Damascus to Palmyra can now be made infive days viâ Mareau Said and Niah—​the pleasantest route, passingby much water, and averaging six to seven hours riding a day. ButPalmyra is still under the care of rapacious shayks, and great carehas to be observed in arranging for a tour to that city of grand ruins.Things are a little better than they were in Burton’s day, but thereis still danger.—​W. H. W.

Printed by Hasell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

Transcriber’s Note:

Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to theend of the chapter. Final stops missing at the end of sentences andabbreviations were added. Duplicate words at line endings or pagebreaks were removed.

Inconsistent hyphenation and misspelled words were not changed.

At the end of the phrase “They took up comfortable positions on thecut-throat em,” the last portion of the word beginning with “em” isnot printed in the original; “embankment” is assumed.

The Arabic signature below the frontispiece, الحاج عبداله, is a best guess,based on several interpretations of the original image.