Travel Diary of Mrs. R.P. Eaton:
Europe, Egypt, and Palestine, ca. 1857

Much of that history is sealed; some of it is shadowed
from in the aerials hieroglyphics that cover those magnificent
ruins and monuments that are the wonder of the world. If
the Nile could tell us all it has witnessed – if it could
sing of the deeds of all the triumph of arts and arms here –
how thrilling would be the story, how sublime the epic!
Before the Pentateuch was written, before the Law was
given on Mount Sinai, there stood on the banks of the
Nile cities, temples, and tombs, which in vastness and
magnificence, have never yet been surpassed. How dif-
ferent is the Egypt of today from the Egypt of the Phara-
ohs and the Ptolemys!
In ascending the river, one is struck with the richness and
vast capabilities of the soil. The valley is but a few miles in width,
bounded by the Lybian desert on the west, and the Arabian on
the east, the barren sands, or rocky, desolate bluffs, often
approaching quite near to the river Mary in; while again, the fertile
plain, covered with luxuriant crops, extends back for a consid-
erable distance. No soil can be more productive. It needs
no artificial enriching. The annual overflow of the river, some-
where from August to October, spreads over it a deposit more
valuable than gold. How wonderful is this arrangement of
Providence, in a country where rain is never or rarely known.
If a year passes without the overflowing, great scarcity or
a famine is the result.
The scenery along the Nile is peculiar; the low ranges of hills,
and bordering deserts, without a solitary tree or spire of grass, contrasts
strongly with the profuse luxuriance and grateful verdose of the
valley, with its occasional clusters of stately and grateful palm
trees which sometimes, also for a long distance stand in bea-
utiful lines along the river’s bank. Flowers of various kinds
may be gathered, and the cotton and castor oil plants are often
preserved. I have often observed under the clean skies and still atmosphere,
a profound silence brooding over all the landscape. My “busy bum of men,”
no rustling of leaves, no solemn music of forest, no cascade’s song,
not a sloping field of heat moving in the breeze, not a cottage or a fence
of unrest the long infinity fusion, or break the deep spell of universal stillness.
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