# On the Desert - Recent Events in Egypt/Chapter 8

Contents
CHAPTER VIII.
COMING TO THE FOOT OF SINAI.
That ascent of Serbal nearly finished me. It took about as long to descend as to ascend, and the descent was hardly less fatiguing. The next morning I awoke with not quite the elation I had the day before, but rather feeling as if I had been beaten from head to foot; as if, forsooth, one of the old monks, who had been laid to rest a thousand years ago, enraged to have his sleep disturbed, had crawled out of his cell and crept down the mountain side to administer to an intruder the discipline of flagellation. However, I "picked myself up" and began to "pull myself together," and found that there was something of me left, and none the worse for a little rough experience. I find generally that what costs nothing is worth nothing; and so, if this mountain climb had cost a good deal, it was worth it all in visions and memories which it left behind, which can hardly fade as long as mind and memory endure. Amid the lighter impressions of the scene (as a contrast and relief to those which were more grand and sombre), there was a glimpse of our Arab companions which was not unpleasing. When we first looked down from the top of Serbal, it seemed as if we were looking into the burnt-out crater of a volcano, where all animate existence was extinguished. But it was not utterly destitute of life. With a spy-glass, one could detect the signs of human habitation. In the foreground was the camp which we had left at daylight in the morning, and ​sprinkled here and there among the palms of the Wady Feiran were the tents of Arabs. Turning to points still farther away, to the very ends of the wadies, one could see little black patches in the yellow sand, which we had learned to recognize as Arab villages. Strictly speaking, the Arab has no village; he is a nomad, whose only house is a tent, who camps wherever he can find a stream of water, or a little pasturage for his camels, and when that is gone, "folds his tent and silently steals away." How can human beings live in such frightful solitudes? "Why do you not leave this desolate region," said Dr. Post to one of our guides, "and go to Suez or Cairo, where you can find the companionship of men?" "Oh, no," said the Arab, "we cannot leave our mountains and valleys." "And do you really love them?" "Oh, yes," he answered with all the fervor of a Swiss mountaineer in exile, sighing for the cowbells of the Ranz des Vaches. The Doctor was standing on the topmost rock of Serbal, with his spy-glass in hand, following the winding wadies as they swept round and round the base of the mountains. The guide was watching his movements, and observing the instrument pointed in a certain direction, he followed it with eager curiosity. Noticing the expression of his countenance, the Doctor put the glass to his eyes, pointing it to the valley. A moment passed, and a smile stole over the swarthy face of the Bedawee — an expression of wonder and surprise and pleasure. He had recognized the village of his people. There were the little flocks of black goats dotting the hillside. He saw the tents of his tribe, and the children sporting in the sand:
"There were his young barbarians all at play."
What wonder that he loved the spot? Poor and wretched as it was, it was his home, and he would not part from it for all the delights of civilization.
​But it is not only the feeling of home, but the feeling of liberty, that attaches the Arab to his mountains and deserts. He loves the freedom of the wilderness, which is more to him than soft raiment and kings' houses. From long wandering there is a restlessness in his very blood which cannot be tamed. "Every kind of beasts is tamed, and hath been tamed, of mankind": man himself alone remains untamable. One might as well think of taming the wildest Camanches as the Bedaween. They are an untamable race. True children of Ishmael, they have roamed these deserts three thousand years untouched by civilization. I have sometimes amused myself by thinking what would be the result of an experiment to civilize a Bedawee. If he were to be taken to Paris, to be dressed in European costume, and made in his exterior like a man of the gay world, and taught all the luxuries and the vices of civilization, yet in his moments of pleasure there would creep over his face the expression of melancholy which seems to belong to the Oriental races, and at the first moment he would escape from his golden chains, from a life which was a bondage and slavery, and fly to his desert, to his tent and his camel.
With such memories and musings, we began our next morning's march. When we turned our backs on the Oasis of Wady Feiran, it was like leaving home. How soon the traveller on the desert gets a feeling of home for a spot where he has camped by the brookside and under the trees, where peace has come to him as he sat before his tent door in the cool of the day, when the evening wind gently stirred the leaves of the palms over his head. Three days before, this oasis was as utterly unknown to us as if it were a valley among the mountains of Central Asia. Now it had become dear by that Sabbath in the wilderness, by the ascent of Serbal, and even by our faintness ​and weariness, for it is the spots in our earthly pilgrimage where we have been faint and weary which linger longest in the memory and the heart. To be sure, we were footsore as we rose up for the duties of the day, but our spirits were light if our limbs were heavy. Our way led along the bed of the little stream, which was overhung by palms. Nowhere have we seen so many palms since we entered the desert, and they are not like the palms of Egypt, naked trunks, with but a tuft of leaves at the top, but are feathered from the ground, and thus spread out their foliage in all the wildness and beauty of nature. No wonder this water-course is a great attraction for the Bedaween, who gather here with their flocks and herds. Up to this time we had seen scarcely a living animal on the desert, except the camels and the little black goats, which furnish the Arab with milk, and with haircloth for his cloaks and his tents. But once to-day we saw several sheep, and perhaps half a dozen little donkeys! Really, after hearing for so many days only the grunting of camels, it was some relief to hear the good honest bray of an ass. Twice we passed through narrow gates in the rocks, which seemed as if caused by a rush of waters, and in which Dr. Post found proof that these wadies were formerly the beds of lakes, which had broken through these gates and thus been drained off to the sea. Storms still sweep through them at times with tremendous fury. In 1867 an English traveller witnessed one of these in the Wady Feiran, when the water rose so rapidly that he had to flee to the hills for his life, as the whole valley, three hundred yards wide, became the bed of a river eight to ten feet deep, that swept along like an Alpine torrent.
As we advanced, the wady grew wider, and broadened out into a kind of upland valley, while the hills sank lower. Weary as we were, we made a long march, for the ​camels had rested two days, and now strode forward with quick steps. But though we had a rest under a cliff at noon, we were very, very tired ere the day was done. It was a pity that we were so, for we camped in a spot where one would wish to have all his senses at command, to take in the fullest enjoyment. We had come through a wady that was one of the longest and widest in the Peninsula, and camped at the very end, from which, looking back, we had such a view of Serbal as it was worth travelling many days to see, his five columns seeming like the very portals of the Celestial City as they stood up clear against the western sky. But I was too weary to enjoy the sight even of the gates of the New Jerusalem, and no sooner were our tents pitched and our camp-beds spread than I threw myself down and fell asleep. Dr. Post, in a private letter written months afterward, alludes, among the experiences on the desert which he so vividly remembers, to "our fatigues and sickness and perils." These are things that we do not often speak of. But now that it is all over, I think I can say that that night he was in grave anxiety. I saw it in his face as he watched the symptoms with a fear which he afterwards confesses, though he did not dare then to express, that the morning would find in the tent a patient with a raging fever. His watchfulness and skill checked it. When morning came, I was still very weak and feverish, but not for a moment did I think of remaining in camp. On the desert, sick or well, one must press on. It is death to stop long, although it may seem like death to move. And as we were within half a day's march of Sinai, it was worth rising up even from a sick bed to make a last effort.
We were now to cross a rugged pass, which leads over into the broad valley or plain that slopes to the foot of Mount Sinai. It is fitly called the Pass of the Winds, ​since it seems as if all the elements — not only winds, but floods and storms, and tempest in every form, with thunder and lightning — had been let loose to work the wildest ruin and confusion. It is narrow and steep, and so piled with rocks that it is quite impassable for baggage-camels, which have to be sent round another way, that is longer by some hours' march. Our camels had quite enough to do to carry us. Slowly and wearily did they struggle upward. As it was impossible for two to keep side by side, we straggled on one after the other, separate and silent. My spirits were such as might have been expected from a sick man, till after two or three hours we rose to the summit of the pass, when I heard behind me the voice of the dragomen shouting "Jebel Mousa!" That cry cured me in an instant. If it did not drive away the fever, it made me forget it. Instantly the tears rushed into my eyes, and all personal feeling was lost in one overpowering thought: There was the Mount of Moses, the Mount of God! On that domed summit the Almighty had descended in fire to give His law to men.
As we picked our way down the rocky pass, there opened before us, not a narrow mountain gorge, nor even a somewhat spacious wady, but a plain over two miles long and half a mile wide, which was enclosed by hills, and thus formed a natural amphitheatre. It was not level, but slightly descending, like the floor of some grand auditorium, so that all who stood upon it might be in full sight and hearing of a vision and a voice that were in the very focus of this vast circumference. Every eye could be fixed upon that awful Mount. Such an arena, a hundred times more spacious than the Coliseum at Rome, seems as if prepared for a great assembly and a great occasion. Never was there a spot more fitted for a scene so august. No sooner does one enter it than he feels that it must have ​been intended for the camp of Israel, and for the hearing of the Law. The impression grows as we advance toward the foot of the Mount, for at each step we pass over the very ground where Israel stood. When my dear and honored friend, President Hitchcock of New York, with Professor Park of Andover, and Henry B. Smith of blessed memory, were here a few years since, they camped the night before reaching Sinai at a distance, but in full view of the summit, and that evening there came up a terrific storm, in which the lightnings and the thunderings vividly recalled the scene in which the Law was given. We had no such sight, neither when we stood afar off, nor yet when we drew nigh unto the Mount where God was. The sky was without a cloud, as if every token of wrath had passed away, and all was peace.
But neither sunshine nor storm could make us abide in tents, if there was a sign of a more stable habitation, and that we were now approaching in the Convent of St. Catherine. For the last hour our eyes had been divided between the mighty cliffs above us, which seemed like the battlements of the city whose walls are "great and high," and a spot of green at the base of the mountain. The Convent does not stand, as I had supposed, high up on the side of Mount Sinai (I had imagined it perched on a cliff overlooking the valley below), but at its foot, and not in front, but on one side between two mountains, where indeed it fills up almost the whole pass, leaving but a few rods more than room for the camel-path that winds around it. In this confined space the monks have made a paradise in the wilderness. As we approached, we were delighted with the sight of blossoming trees. To be sure, there were a few funereal-looking cypresses, which seemed in harmony with the general desolation. But mingled with this dark foliage were trees ​in full bloom — the almond, the cherry, the peach, and the apricot, the olive, and the orange, with a single fine specimen of the carob tree, which yields "the husks that the swine did eat," and which (though its pods be destined to such an ignoble use) is really quite a majestic tree. Around and among these trees were extensive gardens, carefully cultivated, and yielding fresh vegetables in abundance. Was there ever a sight more grateful to the eyes of weary travellers, after a long journey on the desert?
The Convent is a range of buildings grouped in a quadrangle of such extent that hundreds of pilgrims could easily be lodged within its numerous courts, and which thus suggests the idea of a huge Eastern caravanserai, and at the same time of a fortress, for its very construction tells plainly that it was built long ago, in times when it was a post of danger, to be held against attack. Its walls are like ramparts, with port-holes and watch-towers, and a strong gateway like one that opens into a fort. Indeed not fifty years ago strangers who found shelter here were not admitted by an open gate, but were drawn up in a basket, and swung into a window in the third or fourth story. The great rope still hangs outside in token of its former use, and we afterwards amused ourselves by putting it round us and taking a seat as in a swing, while the monks above lifted us from the ground. But this danger has passed away of later years, since Russia has taken the Convent under its protection; and now it has an arched portal, through which a party mounted on camels can ride into an outer court. Into this we rode, and dismounted in front of the heavier and stronger wall of the fortress. Entrance farther is obtained only by a letter from the Greek patriarch at Cairo, which we had brought with us, and sent by an attendant to the Prior of the Convent.
Presently one of the brethren appeared and bade us ​welcome. It was the Econome, who receives pilgrims and guests. We find that the Convent has a sort of double head, spiritual and temporal (like the Tycoon and the Mikado of Japan) — a Prior, who is the spiritual head, and an Econome (Ækonomos), who is the business manager. It was with the latter we had most to do. The other kept himself hid in the recesses of the Convent, with his mind fixed on heavenly things, in the dim religious light appropriate to one of his sacred character; while the Econome was by no means
". . . Too wise or good For human nature's daily food,"
but a jolly monk, who could talk and laugh with the most worldly visitor. As he led our way into the interior, we were azain reminded that we were entering a fortress. The walls are seven feet thick, quite sufficient to resist any attack but that of modern artillery. The postern is just high enough for a man's head, and the passage so narrow that it admits but one person at a time. The door which shuts this entrance is like the door of a prison, of massive oak, barred and spiked with iron. Entering here a few feet, and turning sidewise, we were led along one passage after another into an open court, then down-stairs and up-stairs, by a path so winding that it was several days before I could find my way, into the large room of the Convent, where strangers are received. Here several of the brethren soon appeared with pleasant salutations, and notably the Archimandrite of Jerusalem, who has been some months at the Convent, and who, to my great joy, addressed me in French, so that I was immediately in communication with him. The others I had to turn over entirely to Dr. Post, as they spoke little but Arabic. He is a large man, of fine presence and open countenance, who has seen a good deal of the world, having lived five years ​at Constantinople and thirty at Jerusalem. We were seated on the divan with our hosts, when a monk entered bearing a tray on which were the tiny cups of coffee always used in the East. After partaking of refreshments, we asked for lodgings, which were not so easily obtained, as the rooms set apart for that purpose were occupied by ecclesiastical visitors. Of late years travellers have more generally adopted the plan of camping outside the Convent. The monks offered us a place in the garden, where we could pitch our tents under the blossoming almond-trees. But no; I wished to be not outside, but "within the gates," and gently urged the matter, till the Archimandrite said he would see what they could do, and after sending to inquire, in a few minutes conducted us to a couple of rooms on the third story, at the end of a long corridor. My room was in the extreme angle, at the farthest corner, where, as I looked out of the window, it seemed as if I were perched up in the signal-tower of a fortress. The wall even on this story was three feet thick, and the window was secured by heavy iron bars — a precaution which was necessary in the grim old days, to keep an enemy from getting in, if not a prisoner from getting out. But no matter: though it had been barred like a dungeon, the window had a pretty lookout up the valley, and through it came a cool, refreshing breeze. The door opened on the corridor, which looked down upon the whole interior of the Convent. Our dragoman and cook found quarters in the court below, and served our meals on this corridor, and took the whole care of our rooms. A few feet from my door a cannon peered out of a port-hole (there were several small pieces of artillery along the corridor and mounted on the walls), and in my room was a picture of the Virgin, before which, as a shrine, a lamp was kept burning, so that I was protected both by earthly and ​heavenly powers. The room was plain enough for any monk, but it was clean (the walls had been whitewashed); and though the floor was of brick, yet the rug which the dragoman spread over it made it soft to the feet. At least it was a place of rest, which was sorely needed after the fatigues of our long marches. I was very much exhausted, in spite of the excitement; indeed the excitement itself was exhausting. And so with a gratitude that cannot be expressed, we lay down that night and slept at the foot of Horeb, the Mount of God.