only an occasional suggestion is subtly conveyed to me that even the poor must live and that I am immensely rich.  An amiable, an almost enticing seductiveness seems emanating from the fertile soil, shining in the golden air, gleaming softly in the amber sands, dimpling in the brown, the mauve, the silver eddies of the Nile.  It steals upon one.  It ripples over one.  It laps one as if with warm and scented waves.  A sort of lustrous languor overtakes one.  In physical well-being one sinks down, and with wide eyes one gazes and listens and enjoys, and thinks not of the morrow.

The dahabiyeh—­her very name, the Loulia, has a gentle, seductive, cooing sound—­drifts broadside to the current with furled sails, or glides smoothly on before an amiable north wind with sails unfurled.  Upon the bloomy banks, rich brown in color, the brown men stoop and straighten themselves, and stoop again, and sing.  The sun gleams on their copper skins, which look polished and metallic.  Crouched in his net behind the drowsy oxen, the little boy circles the livelong day with the sakieh.  And the sakieh raises its wailing, wayward voice and sings to the shadoof; and the shadoof sings to the sakieh; and the lifted water falls and flows away into the green wilderness of doura that, like a miniature forest, spreads on every hand to the low mountains, which do not perturb the spirit, as do the iron mountains of Algeria.  And always the sun is shining, and the body is drinking in its warmth, and the soul is drinking in its gold.  And always the ears are full of warm and drowsy and monotonous music.  And always the eyes see the lines of brown bodies, on the brown river-banks above the brown waters, bending, straightening, bending, straightening, with an exquisitely precise monotony.  And always the Loulia seems to be drifting, so quietly she slips up, or down, the level waterway.

And one drifts, too; one can but drift, happily, sleepily, forgetting every care.  From Abydos to Denderah one drifts, and from Denderah to Karnak, to Luxor, to all the marvels on the western shore; and on to Edfu, to Kom Ombos, to Assuan, and perhaps even into Nubia, to Abu-Simbel, and to Wadi-Halfa.  Life on the Nile is a long dream, golden and sweet as honey of Hymettus.  For I let the “divine serpent,” who at Philae may be seen issuing from her charmed cavern, take me very quietly to see the abodes of the dead, the halls of the vanished, upon her green and sterile shores.  I know nothing of the bustling, shrieking steamer that defies her, churning into angry waves her waters for the edification of those who would “do” Egypt and be gone before they know her.

If you are in a hurry, do not come to Egypt.  To hurry in Egypt is as wrong as to fall asleep in Wall street, or to sit in the Greek Theatre at Taormina, reading “How to Make a Fortune with a Capital of Fifty Pounds.”

VI

DENDERAH