a hint of tragedy.

Bahalool, paddling with effortless strength, broke in upon my thoughts. Whither?

Where you will," said I.

"As your honour wishes," said he.

gested.

According to your order," replied the laconic Bahalool; but I could tell from the way in which he braced his shoulders, and flung a guttural word to his companion, that we were in for a long day's paddling.

My suggestion was a random one. I had heard, in the old days, vague references to the "Chains "; what chains, and why they were there, no questioning had ever been able to elicit. But whatever they were, I knew they were in the heart of the Marsh, and to the heart of the Marsh I wanted to go that day.

The sun rose higher, deepening the blue of the water and the changing greens and browns of the tall rushes. In silence we went swiftly on-silence hardly ruffled by the small soughing wind, by the dip of the untiring paddles, and by the murmurous voices in the reeds. From time to time we passed boats laden with mats -mashhufs and danaks, the only means of communication in these two and three-quarter million acres of swamp. The reeds grew thicker; on this on this spring morning the tiny marsh

feet, would flee to safety, the cranes and dignified herons following more slowly. We followed a water-channel, which twisted and turned as it threaded a narrow path through the ever taller reeds; now it broadened into a deep still pool, now to a wide and sunlit space of wind-ruffled water; for, however still, even oppressive, the sheltered streams may seem, there is always a fresh breeze on the open water of the Marshes.

The reeds had now become high ramparts, shutting out the sun: old, thick, and towering masses, so far from any marsh settlements that they had never been disturbed by Ma'dan seeking material for hut-building, for buffalo fodder, or for mats. In front, the friendly reeds seemed to open of themselves to provide a way for us; behind, they closed their ranks in dark and threatening masses against the sky, as though prepared to oppose our return. In places the water was hidden by weeds so thick and matted that the mashhufchis could hardly force a way through. In others it was clear and still, unfathomably deep below the powdery

layer of dust on the surface. The scream of an unseen bird might echo across the stillness, or a startled beating of wings, which died away as suddenly as it had arisen; then once more silence held the Marsh. The solitude was intense-more intense than that of the desert. There countless tracks reveal the presence of man or beast, but here the flowering weeds close up again, leaving no trace. Only very occasionally did we come across a few reeds twisted together and bent-a landmark or wordless message from a marshman to his fellows, seeming only to intensify the lonely silence of the wilderness.

We had seen no other sign of human life, though more than once a rounded ishan or mound had loomed above our path, concealing in the dust of centuries the temples and dwellings of that ancient civilisation which had once flowered in the fertile land now engulfed beneath this waste of useless water. But the mounds, though usually chosen by the Marsh Arabs as village sites, raised as they are above the level of the swamp, were untenanted. It was only after some hours' journey that we saw any sign of human habitation. Instead of pushing our way through the all-embracing weeds, we began to follow a thin ribbon of blue water evidently kept clear by the frequent passage of mashhufs. We passed a small herd of buffaloes; the shiny black beasts, some nosing ponderously among the reeds,

others submerged up to their necks in the cool water and contentedly chewing the cud, were another sign that a village was near. Then the high green barriers became thinner, fell away on both sides, became mere clumps dotting an open space in which a few small ishans lifted just clear of the water a dozen low-arched huts. As usual at the sight of an unexpected intrusion, the men seized their rifles, and leapt in among the reeds, from the shelter of which they could best defend their homes. The women, on the contrary, stared at us as placidly as their own buffaloes, hardly troubling to suspend their household tasks of scouring cooking-pots, washing clothes, and husking rice. The scene was full of colour, good, hard, and primitive: yellow huts against a background of green, buffaloes and pitched mashhufs like black silhouettes in the foreground, splashes of scarlet and orange as the women moved to and fro. It was a typical Marsh scene, and, reaching for my camera, I told Bahalool to land me on the largest island.

The ground on which I stepped was covered with broken pottery, some unglazed, some a bright sky-blue. Fragments of all shapes and sizes lay jumbled together, with here and there a flat square brick inscribed with cuneiform symbols. A little higher on the sloping ground lay a crumbled mass of masonry, with hints of columns, the whole covered

In the place of their hearts' desire."

This translation from Dr King's "Seven Tablets of Creation" shows how the early Sumerians began the reclamation of the "Sea Land," by erecting banks of earth and reeds such as the Marsh tribes build to this day. From small beginnings the dykes grew in size and extent, until vast areas were enclosed, within which the land was cultivated by means of flow irrigation through cuts in the dykes; cities were built, and temples (the places of their hearts' desire) raised to the gods. All these were below the level of the water, protected from inundation by the strength of the encircling bund. The present desolation dates from the fifth century, when, with a weak monarchy, came years of neglect, and a sudden flood breached the untended dykes, submerging all the low lands south and west of the Tigris. A stronger king was able to reclaim much of the

in its violence, broke down the bunds once more. This was only a few years before the Muslim invasion. The Sassanian king, Khuzraw Parviz, did what he could; but though "he crucified in one day forty dykemen at a certain breach,' he could not control the waters. Perhaps the buried town on which I stood had survived even that devastation, and had lasted until the Mongol hordes,

flood more terrible even than the ungovernable waters, had finally destroyed the ancient irrigation system, and made the great swamp permanent, accepted, and abandoned. I took several photographs of the village, and several of the naked brown youngsters who played among the buffaloes, scrambling over the somnolent black backs, as happy in the deep water as out of it. Were these modern little savages descended from the strange dark-skinned race called the Zott, who in the time of Haroun - al-Raschid occupied the marshes of Southern Mesopotamia, levied tolls on the shipping, and finally cut off the supplies of Baghdad? If so, they were cousins of our English gipsies, who are said to be the last of the thousands of that race who were carried off to Baghdad by Haroun's successor, and exiled to Asia Minor, whence they wandered in homeless tribes about Europe.

On the shelving bank behind me a mashhuf ran silently

I turned, to see an old woman helped out and half carried up the bank by the mashhufchi, who led her to Bahalool. After a few moments they came towards me, and I saw from the care with which the tall marshman guided her footsteps that the woman was blind. She was bent and shrivelled with age; incredibly old she seemed as she hobbled painfully over the shard-strewn ground, her dirty draperies sweeping unkempt behind her. Unlike the withered brown faces of the other beldams of the village, hers was pale, putty-coloured. So expressionless were her features, so colourless her eyes and lips, that the face seemed like one from which all life had long since ebbed, leaving an empty mask.

"Here is the sahib," said Bahalool. "Speak, O mother of many, and give him what you have brought."

The old woman took a step or two forward, stretched out a lean and bony hand, and feeling for my arm, felt earnestly up and down my sleeve.

"Is he indeed a Farangi?" she asked tremulously. A dozen interested bystanders assured her that I was.

"Take this, then, Effendim," she said, and held out a flat packet wrapped in cloth that might once have been white. 66 This was his command, that I should give it to a Farangi, to another of his own kind. Now, al hamdu lillah, I have obeyed him. Take it, and

VOL. CCXVIII.-NO. MCCCXVII.

all-powerful (his Name be blest and exalted) lengthen your years."

She turned, still feebly calling down blessings on my head, and was led slowly away.

With some difficulty I untied the tightly-drawn knots and opened the package. Inside was an old book, calf-bound; at some time or another it had suffered from damp, or might even have been dropped in the water, for the binding was split and warped, the pages swollen and discoloured. I opened it, and turned to the fly-leaf; but whatever had been written there was now undecipherable. The next page, comparatively undamaged, was a coloured frontispiece: "The Author in his Travelling Costume." The cheerful blue of his voluminous coat and the red of his baggy trousers had come off on to the opposite page, which read :

PERSONAL NARRATIVE

ΟΙ

TRAVELS

IN

BABYLONIA, ASSYRIA, MEDIA AND SCYTHIA

IN THE YEAR 1824

BY

MAJOR THE HON. GEORGE KEPPEL,

F.S.A.

Third Edition

IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN NEW BURLINGTON STREET

1827

A 2

So far so good. But how had this volume fallen into the hands of an old crone of the Marshes, and why was it so highly valued by the unknown owner that he had bidden her hand it to "another of his own kind ? Touched with curiosity, I turned the pages, and tried to open the no small number which had stuck together. Many were illegible; some had passages marked in the margin with a faded greenish ink; others were plentifully underlined.

The word "Bussorah" caught my eye. "The abundance of water," I read, "besides irrigating the gardens, which it does effectually, might also be the means of keeping the town clean, were there not in the inhabitants an innate love of filth. Bussorah is the dirtiest town in the Turkish dominions. The streets, which are narrow and irregular, are almost insupportable from the stench. Some houses are built of kilnburnt bricks, but the greater number are of mud. From these project several long spouts made of the body of the date-tree, which convey filth of every description into the streets, so that a passenger is in frequent danger of an Edinburgh salutation, without the friendly caution of Gardez loo." Fortunately, Basrah has since mended its ways.

A few pages later came a description of a journey up the Tigris, most of it heavily marked in the margin. "The Arab boatmen were as hardy

and muscular - looking fellows as I ever saw. One loose brown shirt, of the coarseness of sackcloth, was the only covering of the latter. This, when labour required it, was thrown aside, and discovered forms most admirably adapted to their laborious avocations; indeed, any of the boatmen would have made an excellent model for a Hercules; and one in particular, with uncombed hair and shaggy beard, struck us all with the resemblance he bore to the statues of that deity." Again," Several women, accompanied by a host of children, brought milk, butter, and curds for sale, and followed the boat for some time. The behaviour of these females formed a striking contrast with the manners of the Indian women, and still more with the veiled dames of Bussorah. They came to our boats with the frankness of innocence, and there was a freedom in their manners, bordering perhaps on the masculine; nevertheless their fine features and well-turned limbs produced a tout ensemble of beauty, not to be surpassed perhaps in the brilliant assemblies of civilised life. True it is, their complexions were of a gipsy brown; but, even on this point, there may be some who see a Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt.'"

It seemed that the unknown traveller had simply marked those passages which he had verified from his own experience; of himself they told nothing. I turned from page