The Coast of Palestine.
The Pilgrimage Commences--The Muleteers--The Mules--The Donkey--Journey
to Sidon--The Foot of Lebanon--Pictures--The Ruins of Tyre--A Wild
Morning--The Tyrian Surges--Climbing the Ladder of Tyre--Panorama of the
Bay of Acre--The Plain of Esdraelon--Camp in a Garden--Acre--the Shore
of the Bay--Haifa--Mount Carmel and its Monastery--A Deserted Coast--The
Ruins of Cæsarea--The Scenery of Palestine--We become Robbers--El
Haram--Wrecks--the Harbor and Town of Jaffa.
"Along the line of foam, the jewelled chain,
The largesse of the ever-giving main."
R. H. Stoddard.
Ramleh, _April_ 27, 1852.
We left Beyrout on the morning of the 22d. Our caravan consisted of three
horses, three mules, and a donkey, in charge of two men--Dervish, an
erect, black-bearded, and most impassive Mussulman, and Mustapha, who is
the very picture of patience and good-nature. He was born with a smile on
his face, and has never been able to change the expression. They are both
masters of their art, and can load a mule with a speed and skill which I
would defy any Santa Fé trader to excel. The animals are not less
interesting than their masters. Our horses, to be sure, are slow, plodding
beasts, with considerable endurance, but little spirit; but the two
baggage mules deserve gold medals from the Society for the Promotion of
Industry. I can overlook any amount of waywardness in the creatures, in
consideration of the steady, persevering energy, the cheerfulness and even
enthusiasm with which they perform their duties. They seem to be conscious
that they are doing well, and to take a delight in the consciousness. One
of them has a band of white shells around his neck, fastened with a tassel
and two large blue beads; and you need but look at him to see that he is
aware how becoming it is. He thinks it was given to him for good conduct,
and is doing his best to merit another. The little donkey is a still more
original animal. He is a practical humorist, full of perverse tricks, but
all intended for effect, and without a particle of malice. He generally
walks behind, running off to one side or the other to crop a mouthful of
grass, but no sooner does Dervish attempt to mount him, than he sets off
at full gallop, and takes the lead of the caravan. After having performed
one of his feats, he turns around with a droll glance at us, as much as to
say: "Did you see that?" If we had not been present, most assuredly he
would never have done it. I can imagine him, after his return to Beyrout,
relating his adventures to a company of fellow-donkeys, who every now and
then burst into tremendous brays at some of his irresistible dry sayings.
I persuaded Mr. Harrison to adopt the Oriental costume, which, from five
months' wear in Africa, I greatly preferred to the Frank. We therefore
rode out of Beyrout as a pair of Syrian Beys, while François, with his
belt, sabre, and pistols had much the aspect of a Greek brigand. The road
crosses the hill behind the city, between the Forest of Pines and a long
tract of red sand-hills next the sea. It was a lovely morning, not too
bright and hot, for light, fleecy vapors hung along the sides of Lebanon.
Beyond the mulberry orchards, we entered on wild, half-cultivated tracts,
covered with a bewildering maze of blossoms. The hill-side and stony
shelves of soil overhanging the sea fairly blazed with the brilliant dots
of color which were rained upon them. The pink, the broom, the poppy, the
speedwell, the lupin, that beautiful variety of the cyclamen, called by
the Syrians "_deek e-djebel_" (cock o' the mountain), and a number of
unknown plants dazzled the eye with their profusion, and loaded the air
with fragrance as rare as it was unfailing. Here and there, clear, swift
rivulets came down from Lebanon, coursing their way between thickets of
blooming oleanders. Just before crossing the little river Damoor, François
pointed out, on one of the distant heights, the residence of the late Lady
Hester Stanhope. During the afternoon we crossed several offshoots of the
Lebanon, by paths incredibly steep and stony, and towards evening reached
Saïda, the ancient Sidon, where we obtained permission to pitch our tent
in a garden. The town is built on a narrow point of land, jutting out from
the centre of a bay, or curve in the coast, and contains about five
thousand inhabitants. It is a quiet, sleepy sort of a place, and contains
nothing of the old Sidon except a few stones and the fragments of a mole,
extending into the sea. The fortress in the water, and the Citadel, are
remnants of Venitian sway. The clouds gathered after nightfall, and
occasionally there was a dash of rain on our tent. But I heard it with the
same quiet happiness, as when, in boyhood, sleeping beneath the rafters, I
have heard the rain beating all night upon the roof. I breathed the sweet
breath of the grasses whereon my carpet was spread, and old Mother Earth,
welcoming me back to her bosom, cradled me into calm and refreshing
sleep. There is no rest more grateful than that which we take on the turf
or the sand, except the rest below it.
We rose in a dark and cloudy morning, and continued our way between fields
of barley, completely stained with the bloody hue of the poppy, and
meadows turned into golden mosaic by a brilliant yellow daisy. Until noon
our road was over a region of alternate meadow land and gentle though
stony elevations, making out from Lebanon. We met continually with
indications of ancient power and prosperity. The ground was strewn with
hewn blocks, and the foundations of buildings remain in many places.
Broken sarcophagi lie half-buried in grass, and the gray rocks of the
hills are pierced with tombs. The soil, though stony, appeared to be
naturally fertile, and the crops of wheat, barley, and lentils were very
flourishing. After rounding the promontory which forms the southern
boundary of the Gulf of Sidon, we rode for an hour or two over a plain
near the sea, and then came down to a valley which ran up among the hills,
terminating in a natural amphitheatre. An ancient barrow, or tumulus,
nobody knows of whom, stands near the sea. During the day I noticed two
charming little pictures. One, a fountain gushing into a broad square
basin of masonry, shaded by three branching cypresses. Two Turks sat on
its edge, eating their bread and curdled milk, while their horses drank
out of the stone trough below. The other, an old Mahommedan, with a green
turban and white robe, seated at the foot of a majestic sycamore, over the
high bank of a stream that tumbled down its bed of white marble rock to
the sea.
The plain back of the narrow, sandy promontory on which the modern Soor
is built, is a rich black loam, which a little proper culture would turn
into a very garden. It helped me to account for the wealth of ancient
Tyre. The approach to the town, along a beach on which the surf broke with
a continuous roar, with the wreck of a Greek vessel in the foreground, and
a stormy sky behind, was very striking. It was a wild, bleak picture, the
white minarets of the town standing out spectrally against the clouds. We
rode up the sand-hills, back of the town, and selected a good
camping-place among the ruins of Tyre. Near us there was an ancient square
building, now used as a cistern, and filled with excellent fresh water.
The surf roared tremendously on the rocks, on either hand, and the boom of
the more distant breakers came to my ear like the wind in a pine forest.
The remains of the ancient sea-wall are still to be traced for the entire
circuit of the city, and the heavy surf breaks upon piles of shattered
granite columns. Along a sort of mole, protecting an inner harbor on the
north side, are great numbers of these columns. I counted fifteen in one
group, some of them fine red granite, and some of the marble of Lebanon.
The remains of the pharos and the fortresses strengthening the sea-wall,
were pointed out by the Syrian who accompanied us as a guide, but his
faith was a little stronger than mine. He even showed us the ruins of the
jetty built by Alexander, by means of which the ancient city, then
insulated by the sea, was taken. The remains of the causeway gradually
formed the promontory by which the place is now connected with the main
land. These are the principal indications of Tyre above ground, but the
guide informed us that the Arabs, in digging among the sand-hills for the
stones of the old buildings, which they quarry out and ship to Beyrout,
come upon chambers, pillars, arches, and other objects. The Tyrian purple
is still furnished by a muscle found upon the coast, but Tyre is now only
noted for its tobacco and mill-stones. I saw many of the latter lying in
the streets of the town, and an Arab was selling a quantity at auction in
the square, as we passed. They are cut out from a species of dark volcanic
rock, by the Bedouins of the mountains. There were half a dozen small
coasting vessels lying in the road, but the old harbors are entirely
destroyed. Isaiah's prophecy is literally fulfilled: "Howl, ye ships of
Tarshish; for it is laid waste, so that there is no house, no entering
in."
On returning from our ramble we passed the house of the Governor, Daood
Agha, who was dispensing justice in regard to a lawsuit then before him.
He asked us to stop and take coffee, and received us with much grace and
dignity. As we rose to leave, a slave brought me a large bunch of choice
flowers from his garden.
We set out from Tyre at an early hour, and rode along the beach around the
head of the bay to the Ras-el-Abiad, the ancient Promontorium Album. The
morning was wild and cloudy, with gleams of sunshine that flashed out over
the dark violet gloom of the sea. The surf was magnificent, rolling up in
grand billows, which broke and formed again, till the last of the long,
falling fringes of snow slid seething up the sand. Something of ancient
power was in their shock and roar, and every great wave that plunged and
drew back again, called in its solemn bass: "Where are the ships of Tyre?
where are the ships of Tyre?" I looked back on the city, which stood
advanced far into the sea, her feet bathed in thunderous spray. By and by
the clouds cleared away, the sun came out bold and bright, and our road
left the beach for a meadowy plain, crossed by fresh streams, and sown
with an inexhaustible wealth of flowers. Through thickets of myrtle and
mastic, around which the rue and lavender grew in dense clusters, we
reached the foot of the mountain, and began ascending the celebrated
Ladder of Tyre. The road is so steep as to resemble a staircase, and
climbs along the side of the promontory, hanging over precipices of naked
white rock, in some places three hundred feet in height. The mountain is a
mass of magnesian limestone, with occasional beds of marble. The surf has
worn its foot into hollow caverns, into which the sea rushes with a dull,
heavy boom, like distant thunder. The sides are covered with thickets of
broom, myrtle, arbutus, ilex, mastic and laurel, overgrown with woodbine,
and interspersed with patches of sage, lavender, hyssop, wild thyme, and
rue. The whole mountain is a heap of balm; a bundle of sweet spices.
Our horses' hoofs clattered up and down the rounds of the ladder, and we
looked our last on Tyre, fading away behind the white hem of the breakers,
as we turned the point of the promontory. Another cove of the
mountain-coast followed, terminated by the Cape of Nakhura, the northern
point of the Bay of Acre. We rode along a stony way between fields of
wheat and barley, blotted almost out of sight by showers of scarlet
poppies and yellow chrysanthemums. There were frequent ruins: fragments of
sarcophagi, foundations of houses, and about half way between the two
capes, the mounds of Alexandro-Schoenæ. We stopped at a khan, and
breakfasted under a magnificent olive tree, while two boys tended our
horses to see that they ate only the edges of the wheat field. Below the
house were two large cypresses, and on a little tongue of land the ruins
of one of those square towers of the corsairs, which line all this coast.
The intense blue of the sea, seen close at hand over a broad field of
goldening wheat, formed a dazzling and superb contrast of color. Early in
the afternoon we climbed the Ras Nakhura, not so bold and grand, though
quite as flowery a steep as the Promontorium Album. We had been jogging
half an hour over its uneven summit, when the side suddenly fell away
below us, and we saw the whole of the great gulf and plain of Acre, backed
by the long ridge of Mount Carmel. Behind the sea, which makes a deep
indentation in the line of the coast, extended the plain, bounded on the
east, at two leagues' distance, by a range of hills covered with luxuriant
olive groves, and still higher, by the distant mountains of Galilee. The
fortifications of Acre were visible on a slight promontory near the middle
of the Gulf. From our feet the line of foamy surf extended for miles along
the red sand-beach, till it finally became like a chalk-mark on the edge
of the field of blue.
We rode down the mountain and continued our journey over the plain of
Esdraelon--a picture of summer luxuriance and bloom. The waves of wheat
and barley rolled away from our path to the distant olive orchards; here
the water gushed from a stone fountain and flowed into a turf-girdled
pool, around which the Syrian women were washing their garments; there, a
garden of orange, lemon, fig, and pomegranate trees in blossom, was a
spring of sweet odors, which overflowed the whole land. We rode into some
of these forests, for they were no less, and finally pitched our tent in
one of them, belonging to the palace of the former Abdallah Pasha, within
a mile of Acre. The old Saracen aqueduct, which still conveys water to
the town, overhung our tent. For an hour before reaching our destination,
we had seen it on the left, crossing the hollows on light stone arches. In
one place I counted fifty-eight, and in another one hundred and three of
these arches, some of which were fifty feet high. Our camp was a charming
place: a nest of deep herbage, under two enormous fig-trees, and
surrounded by a balmy grove of orange and citron. It was doubly beautiful
when the long line of the aqueduct was lit up by the moon, and the orange
trees became mounds of ambrosial darkness.
In the morning we rode to Acre, the fortifications of which have been
restored on the land-side. A ponderous double gateway of stone admitted us
into the city, through what was once, apparently, the court-yard of a
fortress. The streets of the town are narrow, terribly rough, and very
dirty, but the bazaars are extensive and well stocked. The principal
mosque, whose heavy dome is visible at some distance from the city, is
surrounded with a garden, enclosed by a pillared corridor, paved with
marble. All the houses of the city are built in the most massive style, of
hard gray limestone or marble, and this circumstance alone prevented their
complete destruction during the English bombardment in 1841. The marks of
the shells are everywhere seen, and the upper parts of the lofty buildings
are completely riddled with cannon-balls, some of which remain embedded in
the stone. We made a rapid tour of the town on horseback, followed by the
curious glances of the people, who were in doubt whether to consider us
Turks or Franks. There were a dozen vessels in the harbor, which is
considered the best in Syria.
The baggage-mules had gone on, so we galloped after them along the hard
beach, around the head of the bay. It was a brilliant morning; a
delicious south-eastern breeze came to us over the flowery plain of
Esdraelon; the sea on our right shone blue, and purple, and violet-green,
and black, as the shadows or sunshine crossed it, and only the long lines
of roaring foam, for ever changing in form, did not vary in hue. A
fisherman stood on the beach in a statuesque attitude, his handsome bare
legs bathed in the frothy swells, a bag of fish hanging from his shoulder,
and the large square net, with its sinkers of lead in his right hand,
ready for a cast. He had good luck, for the waves brought up plenty of
large fish, and cast them at our feet, leaving them to struggle back into
the treacherous brine. Between Acre and Haifa we passed six or eight
wrecks, mostly of small trading vessels. Some were half buried in sand,
some so old and mossy that they were fast rotting away, while a few had
been recently hurled there. As we rounded the deep curve of the bay, and
approached the line of palm-trees girding the foot of Mount Carmel, Haifa,
with its wall and Saracenic town in ruin on the hill above, grew more
clear and bright in the sun, while Acre dipped into the blue of the
Mediterranean. The town of Haifa, the ancient Caiapha, is small, dirty,
and beggarly looking; but it has some commerce, sharing the trade of Acre
in the productions of Syria. It was Sunday, and all the Consular flags
were flying. It was an unexpected delight to find the American colors in
this little Syrian town, flying from one of the tallest poles. The people
stared at us as we passed, and I noticed among them many bright Frankish
faces, with eyes too clear and gray for Syria. O ye kind brothers of the
monastery of Carmel! forgive me if I look to you for an explanation of
this phenomenon.
We ascended to Mount Carmel. The path led through a grove of carob trees,
from which the beans, known in Germany as St. John's bread, are produced.
After this we came into an olive grove at the foot of the mountain, from
which long fields of wheat, giving forth a ripe summer smell, flowed down
to the shore of the bay. The olive trees were of immense size, and I can
well believe, as Fra Carlo informed us, that they were probably planted by
the Roman colonists, established there by Titus. The gnarled, veteran
boles still send forth vigorous and blossoming boughs. There were all
manner of lovely lights and shades chequered over the turf and the winding
path we rode. At last we reached the foot of an ascent, steeper than the
Ladder of Tyre. As our horses slowly climbed to the Convent of St. Elijah,
whence we already saw the French flag floating over the shoulder of the
mountain, the view opened grandly to the north and east, revealing the bay
and plain of Acre, and the coast as far as Ras Nakhura, from which we
first saw Mount Carmel the day previous. The two views are very similar in
character, one being the obverse of the other. We reached the
Convent--Dayr Mar Elias, as the Arabs call it--at noon, just in time to
partake of a bountiful dinner, to which the monks had treated themselves.
Fra Carlo, the good Franciscan who receives strangers, showed us the
building, and the Grotto of Elijah, which is under the altar of the
Convent Church, a small but very handsome structure of Italian marble. The
sanctity of the Grotto depends on tradition entirely, as there is no
mention in the Bible of Elijah having resided on Carmel, though it was
from this mountain that he saw the cloud, "like a man's hand," rising from
the sea. The Convent, which is quite new--not yet completed, in fact--is a
large, massive building, and has the aspect of a fortress.
As we were to sleep at Tantura, five hours distant, we were obliged to
make a short visit, in spite of the invitation of the hospitable Fra Carlo
to spend the night there. In the afternoon we passed the ruins of Athlit,
a town of the Middle Ages, and the Castel Pellegrino of the Crusaders. Our
road now followed the beach, nearly the whole distance to Jaffa, and was
in many places, for leagues in extent, a solid layer of white, brown,
purple and rosy shells, which cracked and rattled under our horses' feet.
Tantura is a poor Arab village, and we had some difficulty in procuring
provisions. The people lived in small huts of mud and stones, near the
sea. The place had a thievish look, and we deemed it best to be careful in
the disposal of our baggage for the night.
In the morning we took the coast again, riding over millions of shells. A
line of sandy hills, covered with thickets of myrtle and mastic, shut off
the view of the plain and meadows between the sea and the hills of
Samaria. After three hours' ride we saw the ruins of ancient Cæsarea, near
a small promontory. The road turned away from the sea, and took the wild
plain behind, which is completely overgrown with camomile, chrysanthemum
and wild shrubs. The ruins of the town are visible at a considerable
distance along the coast. The principal remains consist of a massive wall,
flanked with pyramidal bastions at regular intervals, and with the traces
of gateways, draw-bridges and towers. It was formerly surrounded by a deep
moat. Within this space, which may be a quarter of a mile square, are a
few fragments of buildings, and toward the sea, some high arches and
masses of masonry. The plain around abounds with traces of houses,
streets, and court-yards. Cæsarea was one of the Roman colonies, but owed
its prosperity principally to Herod. St. Paul passed through it on his
way from Macedon to Jerusalem, by the very road we were travelling.
During the day the path struck inland over a vast rolling plain, covered
with sage, lavender and other sweet-smelling shrubs, and tenanted by herds
of gazelles and flocks of large storks. As we advanced further, the
landscape became singularly beautiful. It was a broad, shallow valley,
swelling away towards the east into low, rolling hills, far back of which
rose the blue line of the mountains--the hill-country of Judea. The soil,
where it was ploughed, was the richest vegetable loam. Where it lay fallow
it was entirely hidden by a bed of grass and camomile. Here and there
great herds of sheep and goats browsed on the herbage. There was a quiet
pastoral air about the landscape, a soft serenity in its forms and colors,
as if the Hebrew patriarchs still made it their abode. The district is
famous for robbers, and we kept our arms in readiness, never suffering the
baggage to be out of our sight.
Towards evening, as Mr. H. and myself, with François, were riding in
advance of the baggage mules, the former with his gun in his hand, I with
a pair of pistols thrust through the folds of my shawl, and François with
his long Turkish sabre, we came suddenly upon a lonely Englishman, whose
companions were somewhere in the rear. He appeared to be struck with
terror on seeing us making towards him, and, turning his horse's head,
made an attempt to fly. The animal, however, was restive, and, after a few
plunges, refused to move. The traveller gave himself up for lost; his arms
dropped by his side; he stared wildly at us, with pale face and eyes
opened wide with a look of helpless fright. Restraining with difficulty a
shout of laughter, I said to him: "Did you leave Jaffa to-day?" but so
completely was his ear the fool of his imagination, that he thought I was
speaking Arabic, and made a faint attempt to get out the only word or two
of that language which he knew. I then repeated, with as much distinctness
as I could command: "Did--you--leave--Jaffa--to-day?" He stammered
mechanically, through his chattering teeth, "Y-y-yes!" and we immediately
dashed off at a gallop through the bushes. When we last saw him, he was
standing as we left him, apparently not yet recovered from the shock.
At the little village of El Haram, where we spent the night, I visited the
tomb of Sultan Ali ebn-Aleym, who is now revered as a saint. It is
enclosed in a mosque, crowning the top of a hill. I was admitted into the
court-yard without hesitation, though, from the porter styling me
"Effendi," he probably took me for a Turk. At the entrance to the inner
court, I took off my slippers and walked to the tomb of the Sultan--a
square heap of white marble, in a small marble enclosure. In one of the
niches in the wall, near the tomb, there is a very old iron box, with a
slit in the top. The porter informed me that it contained a charm,
belonging to Sultan Ali, which was of great use in producing rain in times
of drouth.
In the morning we sent our baggage by a short road across the country to
this place, and then rode down the beach towards Jaffa. The sun came out
bright and hot as we paced along the line of spray, our horses' feet
sinking above the fetlocks in pink and purple shells, while the droll
sea-crabs scampered away from our path, and the blue gelatinous
sea-nettles were tossed before us by the surge. Our view was confined to
the sand-hills--sometimes covered with a flood of scarlet poppies--on one
hand; and to the blue, surf-fringed sea on the other. The terrible coast
was still lined with wrecks, and just before reaching the town, we passed
a vessel of some two hundred tons, recently cast ashore, with her strong
hull still unbroken. We forded the rapid stream of El Anjeh, which comes
down from the Plain of Sharon, the water rising to our saddles. The low
promontory in front now broke into towers and white domes, and great
masses of heavy walls. The aspect of Jaffa is exceedingly picturesque. It
is built on a hill, and the land for many miles around it being low and
flat, its topmost houses overlook all the fields of Sharon. The old
harbor, protected by a reef of rocks, is on the north side of the town,
but is now so sanded up that large vessels cannot enter. A number of small
craft were lying close to the shore. The port presented a different scene
when the ships of Hiram, King of Tyre, came in with the materials for the
Temple of Solomon. There is but one gate on the land side, which is rather
strongly fortified. Outside of this there is an open space, which we found
filled with venders of oranges and vegetables, camel-men and the like,
some vociferating in loud dispute, some given up to silence and smoke,
under the shade of the sycamores.
We rode under the heavily arched and towered gateway, and entered the
bazaar. The street was crowded, and there was such a confusion of camels,
donkeys, and men, that we made our way with difficulty along the only
practicable street in the city, to the sea-side, where François pointed
out a hole in the wall as the veritable spot where Jonah was cast ashore
by the whale. This part of the harbor is the receptacle of all the offal
of the town; and I do not wonder that the whale's stomach should have
turned on approaching it. The sea-street was filled with merchants and
traders, and we were obliged to pick our way between bars of iron, skins
of oil, heaps of oranges, and piles of building timber. At last we reached
the end, and, as there was no other thoroughfare, returned the same way we
went, passed out the gate, and took the road to Ramleh and Jerusalem.
But I hear the voice of François, announcing, "_Messieurs, le diner est
prêt._" We are encamped just beside the pool of Ramleh, and the mongrel
children of the town are making a great noise in the meadow below it. Our
horses are enjoying their barley; and Mustapha stands at the tent-door
tying up his sacks. Dogs are barking and donkeys braying all along the
borders of the town, whose filth and dilapidation are happily concealed by
the fig and olive gardens which surround it. I have not curiosity enough
to visit the Greek and Latin Convents embedded in its foul purlieus, but
content myself with gazing from my door upon the blue hills of Palestine,
which we must cross to-morrow, on our way to Jerusalem.