The veracious chronicler of the adventures of King Hiram is compelled to
pass over in silence a period of several months. As certain rivers
disappear, and flow for a distance beneath the ground, so the course of
events, as directed by the discreet and wary Hanno, was for a while
inscrutable. We will follow it, however, from the point where it came
again into the daylight of observation.
Since men began to travel on the earth, innkeepers have been noted for
the courtesy, tact, and assiduity with which they have reaped the
rewards of their business. On a certain day Solomon Ben Eli, innkeeper
at Jericho, in the valley of the Lower Jordan, found all the above-named
qualities of his disposition exercised to the utmost. This was the day
before the opening of the annual Feast of Tabernacles at Jerusalem,
during the seven days of which celebration the men from all parts of the
land came together at the Sacred City.
The hostelry at Jericho--called Beth Elisha, in honor of the prophet
whose miraculous cruse of salt once healed the spring hard by, which
now supplied the town with delightful water--was a long, low building,
rambling, and diverse as the various generations which had successively
built upon it. During the night all its rooms and ingles had been
crowded with pilgrims from up the Jordan and beyond it. Early in the
morning, long before the sun had looked over the beetling cliffs of
Moab, the multitude poured forth into the court-yard. They were clad in
gay garments of many colors, and were not unlike the variously plumed
doves which came out of their adjacent cotes, and filled the air with
their flapping wings and querulous cooing. The shed that enclosed the
opposite side of the yard discharged a more turbulent crowd of horses
and camels, asses and mules, which were kicking and rumping one another
in the attempt to get their noses into the great stone trough that stood
in the centre of the court. The crisp air resounded with the unedifying
matins of mingled grunts, neighs, and brays, which were far from being
reduced to harmony by the shouts of the drivers.
It was easier for the host to seem ubiquitous than it was for him to
command in himself such a variety of tempers as the occasion required.
He must placate those who grumbled at their reckoning; hasten his
laggard servants; adjudicate the quarrels of guests over the uncertain
ownership of bits of harness; must smile, yet frown; beam knowingly, yet
knit his brows in simulated perplexity; be patient, yet keep the
sharpest eye and quickest tongue; and shift all these aspects in such
rapid succession that they seemed to be simultaneous. We may forgive
this prince of innkeepers if for a moment he did not maintain to
perfection his manifold part. Such was the moment when a servant
announced to him that Rabbi Shimeal, the most noted man in the synagogue
at Jericho, would speak with him at the gate.
"A pretty time of day for him to come! I'll warrant he has been up all
night owling it over some verse of the law. Or he wants a gift for the
synagogue. Tell him his affairs must wait until I can get this holy
crowd off for the Temple," was Solomon Ben Eli's petulant response.
The servant soon returned with the statement that the Rabbi Shimeal must
have his assistance in providing a beast to convey to Jerusalem no less
a personage than Ezra, the Great Scribe, who was a guest at the rabbi's
house, and whose animal had given out under the terrible heat of the
previous day, as he had journeyed through the villages of the Jordan
plain, pursuing his holy work of inspecting the copies of the Law used
in the newly established synagogues.
Solomon Ben Eli was shocked at this news, as if an angel's wing had
brushed his face.
"Heaven forgive me!" said he, making low obeisance before his servant,
in obliviousness to the fact that that son of Gibeon was not the great
man of God himself.
"But this is unfortunate," he added, rubbing his hands nervously. "I
have not a horse left, nor a camel, and not even an ass."
The attention of the bystanders being drawn to the host's dilemma, a
marvellous spirit of sympathy with him and of devotion to Ezra was
instantly displayed. Every one urged upon his neighbor the duty of
self-sacrifice, as if each were ashamed of the others for allowing the
Great Scribe's detention or even inconvenience.
"If my horse was strong and handsome, like yours," said one, "I would
gallop at once to the rabbi's. Mine is but a spavined beast, and it
would be a disgrace for the holy man of God to bestride him."
"I would instantly offer my steed," responded the other, "but he is
poorly broken, and the Scribe--be it reverently spoken--is too old to
control him. I could never forgive myself if my beast were the cause of
Ezra's breaking his holy neck among the rocks of Cherith."
A young man stood by who was noticeable from the fact that his garments
were richer in texture than those of most of the pilgrims, though he was
not arrayed for the festival. His cloak, which he drew closely around
him as a protection from the chill morning air, was that of a traveller.
Beneath it he wore a belt, which supported both a sword and an inkhorn,
and thus indicated the trade of merchant. The short black beard about
his lower features was balanced by a head-dress of black silk, which was
bound about his brows with a purple cord, and fell down upon the back of
his neck and shoulders. He was plainly a Phoenician, but confessed that
many months had elapsed since he had been to the coast. For his
identification and safety from the imposition of petty officials in the
various lands he might have occasion to traverse in following his trade,
he carried a letter issued by King Hiram of Tyre, and bearing the royal
seal. Similar letters were borne as passports by all the captains of
vessels and masters of caravans who represented the genuine business
houses in the cities of Phoenicia; and by these credentials they were
distinguished from the irresponsible adventurers who, in the convenient
disguise of travelling merchants, infested all those countries.
The young merchant, observing the perplexity of Solomon, the host,
addressed him:
"If his Excellency the Great Scribe will accept the courtesy of a
stranger, let him take any of my beasts."
"Thanks, noble Marduk!" replied the innkeeper, in grateful relief. "But
I regret that my own people are thus rebuked by a Gentile."
"Nay," replied Marduk, "I would not rebuke your people. They have each
only one riding-beast, while I have many. My animals are lightly laden,
and we can distribute the burden of one upon the others."
"And, I bethink me, the Scribe will ride upon nothing but an ass,"
replied Solomon. "He cites the growing infirmities of years as his
excuse. I will convey your courteous offer to the rabbi."
"And bid him say to the Scribe," added the Phoenician, "that if he can
delay his departure until the crowd has preceded us, my party will
gladly bear him company."