The Country of Galilee.
Departure from Nazareth--A Christian Guide--Ascent of Mount
Tabor--Wallachian Hermits--The Panorama of Tabor--Ride to Tiberias--A
Bath in Genesareth--The Flowers of Galilee--The Mount of
Beatitude--Magdala--Joseph's Well--Meeting with a Turk--The Fountain of
the Salt-Works--The Upper Valley of the Jordan--Summer Scenery--The
Rivers of Lebanon--Tell el-Kadi--An Arcadian Region--The Fountains of
Banias.
"Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee!"--Whittier.
Banias (Cæsarea Philippi), _May_ 10, 1852.
We left Nazareth on the morning of the 8th inst. My companion had done so
well under the care of Fra Joachim that he was able to ride, and our
journey was not delayed by his accident. The benedictions of the good
Franciscans accompanied us as we rode away from the Convent, past the
Fountain of the Virgin, and out of the pleasant little valley where the
boy Jesus wandered for many peaceful years. The Christian guide we engaged
for Mount Tabor had gone ahead, and we did not find him until we had
travelled for more than two hours among the hills. As we approached the
sacred mountain, we came upon the region of oaks--the first oak I had seen
since leaving Europe last autumn. There are three or four varieties, some
with evergreen foliage, and in their wild luxuriance and the
picturesqueness of their forms and groupings, they resemble those of
California. The sea of grass and flowers in which they stood was sprinkled
with thick tufts of wild oats--another point of resemblance to the latter
country. But here, there is no gold; there, no sacred memories.
The guide was waiting for us beside a spring, among the trees. He was a
tall youth of about twenty, with a mild, submissive face, and wore the
dark-blue turban, which appears to be the badge of a native Syrian
Christian. I found myself involuntarily pitying him for belonging to a
despised sect. There is no disguising the fact that one feels much more
respect for the Mussulman rulers of the East, than for their oppressed
subjects who profess his own faith. The surest way to make a man
contemptible is to treat him contemptuously, and the Oriental Christians,
who have been despised for centuries, are, with some few exceptions,
despicable enough. Now, however, since the East has become a favorite
field of travel, and the Frank possesses an equal dignity with the Moslem,
the native Christians are beginning to hold up their heads, and the return
of self-respect will, in the course of time, make them respectable.
Mount Tabor stands a little in advance of the hill-country, with which it
is connected only by a low spur or shoulder, its base being the Plain of
Esdraelon. This is probably the reason why it has been fixed upon as the
place of the Transfiguration, as it is not mentioned by name in the New
Testament. The words are: "an high mountain apart," which some suppose to
refer to the position of the mountain, and not to the remoteness of Christ
and the three Disciples from men. The sides of the mountain are covered
with clumps of oak, hawthorn and other trees, in many places overrun with
the white honeysuckle, its fingers dropping with odor of nutmeg and
cloves. The ascent, by a steep and winding path, occupied an hour. The
summit is nearly level, and resembles some overgrown American field, or
"oak opening." The grass is more than knee-deep; the trees grow high and
strong, and there are tangled thickets and bowers of vines without end.
The eastern and highest end of the mountain is covered with the remains of
an old fortress-convent, once a place of great strength, from the
thickness of its walls. In a sort of cell formed among the ruins we found
two monk-hermits. I addressed them in all languages of which I know a
salutation, without effect, but at last made out that they were
Wallachians. They were men of thirty-five, with stupid faces, dirty
garments, beards run to waste, and fur caps. Their cell was a mere hovel,
without furniture, except a horrid caricature of the Virgin and Child, and
four books of prayers in the Bulgarian character. One of them walked about
knitting a stocking, and paid no attention to us; but the other, after
giving us some deliciously cold water, got upon a pile of rubbish, and
stood regarding us with open mouth while we took breakfast. So far from
this being a cause of annoyance, I felt really glad that our presence had
agitated the stagnant waters of his mind.
The day was hazy and sultry, but the panoramic view from Mount Tabor was
still very fine. The great Plain of Esdraelon lay below us like a vast
mosaic of green and brown--jasper and verd-antique. On the west, Mount
Carmel lifted his head above the blue horizon line of the Mediterranean.
Turning to the other side, a strip of the Sea of Galilee glimmered deep
down among the hills, and the Ghor, or the Valley of the Jordan,
stretched like a broad gash through them. Beyond them, the country of
Djebel Adjeloun, the ancient Decapolis, which still holds the walls of
Gadara and the temples and theatres of Djerash, faded away into vapor,
and, still further to the south, the desolate hills of Gilead, the home of
Jephthah. Mount Hermon is visible when the atmosphere is clear but we were
not able to see it.
From the top of Mount Tabor to Tiberias, on the Sea of Galilee, is a
journey of five hours, through a wild country, with but one single
miserable village on the road. At first we rode through lonely dells,
grown with oak and brilliant with flowers, especially the large purple
mallow, and then over broad, treeless tracts of rolling land, but
partially cultivated. The heat was very great; I had no thermometer, but
should judge the temperature to have been at least 95° in the shade. From
the edge of the upland tract, we looked down on the Sea of Galilee--a
beautiful sheet of water sunk among the mountains, and more than 300 feet
below the level of the Mediterranean. It lay unruffled in the bottom of
the basin, reflecting the peaks of the bare red mountains beyond it.
Tiberias was at our very feet, a few palm trees alone relieving the
nakedness of its dull walls. After taking a welcome drink at the Fountain
of Fig-trees, we descended to the town, which has a desolate and forlorn
air. Its walls have been partly thrown down by earthquakes, and never
repaired. We found our tents already pitched on the bank above the lake,
and under one of the tottering towers.
Not a breath of air was stirring; the red hills smouldered in the heat,
and the waters of Genesareth at our feet glimmered with an oily
smoothness, unbroken by a ripple. We untwisted our turbans, kicked off our
baggy trowsers, and speedily releasing ourselves from the barbarous
restraints of dress, dipped into the tepid sea and floated lazily out
until we could feel the exquisite coldness of the living springs which
sent up their jets from the bottom. I was lying on my back, moving my fins
just sufficiently to keep afloat, and gazing dreamily through half-closed
eyes on the forlorn palms of Tiberias, when a shrill voice hailed me with:
"O Howadji, get out of our way!" There, at the old stone gateway below our
tent, stood two Galilean damsels, with heavy earthen jars upon their
heads. "Go away yourselves, O maidens!" I answered, "if you want us to
come out of the water." "But we must fill our pitchers," one of them
replied. "Then fill them at once, and be not afraid; or leave them, and we
will fill them for you." Thereupon they put the pitchers down, but
remained watching us very complacently while we sank the vessels to the
bottom of the lake, and let them fill from the colder and purer tide of
the springs. In bringing them back through the water to the gate, the one
I propelled before me happened to strike against a stone, and its fair
owner, on receiving it, immediately pointed to a crack in the side, which
she declared I had made, and went off lamenting. After we had resumed our
garments, and were enjoying the pipe of indolence and the coffee of
contentment, she returned and made such an outcry, that I was fain to
purchase peace by the price of a new pitcher. I passed the first hours
of-the night in looking out of my tent-door, as I lay, on the stars
sparkling in the bosom of Galilee, like the sheen of Assyrian spears, and
the glare of the great fires kindled on the opposite shore.
The next day, we travelled northward along the lake, passing through
continuous thickets of oleander, fragrant with its heavy pink blossoms.
The thistles were more abundant and beautiful than ever. I noticed, in
particular, one with a superb globular flower of a bright blue color,
which would make a choice ornament for our gardens at home. At the
north-western head of the lake, the mountains fall back and leave a large
tract of the richest meadow-land, which narrows away into a deep dell,
overhung by high mountain headlands, faced with naked cliffs of red rock.
The features of the landscape are magnificent. Up the dell, I saw plainly
the Mount of Beatitude, beyond which lies the village of Cana of Galilee.
In coming up the meadow, we passed a miserable little village of thatched
mud huts, almost hidden by the rank weeds which grew around them. A
withered old crone sat at one of the doors, sunning herself. "What is the
name of this village?" I asked. "It is Mejdel," was her reply. This was
the ancient Magdala, the home of that beautiful but sinful Magdalene,
whose repentance has made her one of the brightest of the Saints. The
crystal waters of the lake here lave a shore of the cleanest pebbles. The
path goes winding through oleanders, nebbuks, patches of hollyhock,
anise-seed, fennel, and other spicy plants, while, on the west, great
fields of barley stand ripe for the cutting. In some places, the Fellahs,
men and women, were at work, reaping and binding the sheaves. After
crossing this tract, we came to the hill, at the foot of which was a
ruined khan, and on the summit, other undistinguishable ruins, supposed by
some to be those of Capernaum. The site of that exalted town, however, is
still a matter of discussion.
We journeyed on in a most sweltering atmosphere over the ascending hills,
the valley of the Upper Jordan lying deep on our right. In a shallow
hollow, under one of the highest peaks, there stands a large deserted
khan; over a well of very cold; sweet water, called _Bir Youssuf_ by the
Arabs. Somewhere near it, according to tradition, is the field where
Joseph was sold by his brethren; and the well is, no doubt, looked upon by
many as the identical pit into which he was thrown. A stately Turk of
Damascus, with four servants behind him, came riding up as we were resting
in the gateway of the khan, and, in answer to my question, informed me
that the well was so named from Nebbee Youssuf (the Prophet Joseph), and
not from Sultan Joseph Saladin. He took us for his countrymen, accosting
me first in Turkish, and, even after I had talked with him some time in
bad Arabic, asked me whether I had been making a pilgrimage to the tombs
of certain holy Moslem saints, in the neighborhood of Jaffa. He joined
company with us, however, and shared his pipe with me, as we continued our
journey. We rode for two hours more over hills bare of trees, but covered
thick with grass and herbs, and finally lost our way. François went ahead,
dashing through the fields of barley and lentils, and we reached the path
again, as the Waters of Merom came in sight. We then descended into the
Valley of the Upper Jordan, and encamped opposite the lake, at Ain
el-Mellaha (the Fountain of the Salt-Works), the first source of the
sacred river. A stream of water, sufficient to turn half-a-dozen mills,
gushes and gurgles up at the foot of the mountain. There are the remains
of an ancient dam, by which a large pool was formed for the irrigation of
the valley. It still supplies a little Arab mill below the fountain. This
is a frontier post, between the jurisdictions of the Pashas of Jerusalem
and Damascus, and the _mukkairee_ of the Greek Caloyer, who left us at
Tiberias, was obliged to pay a duty of seven and a half piastres on
fifteen mats, which he had bought at Jerusalem for one and a half piastres
each. The poor man will perhaps make a dozen piastres (about half a
dollar) on these mats at Damascus, after carrying them on his mule for
more than two hundred miles.
We pitched our tents on the grassy meadow below the mill--a charming spot,
with Tell el-Khanzir (the hill of wild boars) just in front, over the
Waters of Merom, and the snow-streaked summit of Djebel esh-Shekh--the
great Mount Hermon--towering high above the valley. This is the loftiest
peak of the Anti-Lebanon, and is 10,000 feet above the sea. The next
morning, we rode for three hours before reaching the second spring of the
Jordan, at a place which François called Tell el-Kadi, but which did not
at all answer with the description given me by Dr. Robinson, at Jerusalem.
The upper part of the broad valley, whence the Jordan draws his waters, is
flat, moist, and but little cultivated. There are immense herds of sheep,
goats, and buffaloes wandering over it. The people are a dark Arab tribe,
and live in tents and miserable clay huts. Where the valley begins to
slope upward towards the hills, they plant wheat, barley, and lentils. The
soil is the fattest brown loam, and the harvests are wonderfully rich. I
saw many tracts of wheat, from half a mile to a mile in extent, which
would average forty bushels to the acre. Yet the ground is never manured,
and the Arab plough scratches up but a few inches of the surface. What a
paradise might be made of this country, were it in better hands!
The second spring is not quite so large as Ain el-Mellaha but, like it,
pours out a strong stream from a single source The pool was filled with
women, washing the heavy fleeces of their sheep, and beating the dirt out
of their striped camel's hair abas with long poles. We left it, and
entered on a slope of stony ground, forming the head of the valley. The
view extended southward, to the mountains closing the northern cove of the
Sea of Galilee. It was a grand, rich landscape--so rich that its
desolation seems forced and unnatural. High on the summit of a mountain to
the west, the ruins of a large Crusader fortress looked down upon us. The
soil, which slowly climbs upward through a long valley between Lebanon and
Anti-Lebanon, is cut with deep ravines. The path is very difficult to
find; and while we were riding forward at random, looking in all
directions for our baggage mules, we started up a beautiful gazelle. At
last, about noon, hot, hungry, and thirsty, we reached a swift stream,
roaring at the bottom of a deep ravine, through a bed of gorgeous foliage.
The odor of the wild grape-blossoms, which came up to us, as we rode along
the edge, was overpowering in its sweetness. An old bridge of two arches
crossed the stream. There was a pile of rocks against the central pier,
and there we sat and took breakfast in the shade of the maples, while the
cold green waters foamed at our feet. By all the Naiads and Tritons, what
a joy there is in beholding a running stream! The rivers of Lebanon are
miracles to me, after my knowledge of the Desert. A company of Arabs,
seven in all, were gathered under the bridge; and, from a flute which one
of them blew, I judged they were taking a pastoral holiday. We kept our
pistols beside us; for we did not like their looks. Before leaving, they
told us that the country was full of robbers, and advised us to be on the
lookout. We rode more carefully, after this, and kept with our baggage on
reaching it, An hour after leaving the bridge, we came to a large
circular, or rather annular mound, overgrown with knee-deep grass and
clumps of oak-trees. A large stream, of a bright blue color, gushed down
the north side, and after half embracing the mound swept off across the
meadows to the Waters of Merom. There could be no doubt that this was Tell
el-Kadi, the site of Dan, the most northern town of ancient Israel. The
mound on which it was built is the crater of an extinct volcano. The
Hebrew word _Dan_ signifies "judge," and Tell el-Kadi, in Arabic, is "The
Hill of the Judge."
The Anti-Lebanon now rose near us, its northern and western slopes green
with trees and grass. The first range, perhaps 5,000 feet in height, shut
out the snowy head of Hermon; but still the view was sublime in its large
and harmonious outlines. Our road was through a country resembling
Arcadia--the earth hidden by a dense bed of grass and flowers; thickets of
blossoming shrubs; old, old oaks, with the most gnarled of trunks, the
most picturesque of boughs, and the glossiest of green leaves; olive-trees
of amazing antiquity; and, threading and enlivening all, the clear-cold
floods of Lebanon. This was the true haunt of Pan, whose altars are now
before me, graven on the marble crags of Hermon. Looking on those altars,
and on the landscape, lovely as a Grecian dream, I forget that the lament
has long been sung:
"Pan, Pan is dead!"
In another hour, we reached this place, the ancient Cæsarea Philippi, now
a poor village, embowered in magnificent trees, and washed by glorious
waters. There are abundant remains of the old city: fragments of immense
walls; broken granite columns; traces of pavements; great blocks of hewn
stone; marble pedestals, and the like. In the rock at the foot of the
mountain, there are several elegant niches, with Greek inscriptions,
besides a large natural grotto. Below them, the water gushes up through
the stones, in a hundred streams, forming a flood of considerable size. We
have made our camp in an olive grove near the end of the village, beside
an immense terebinth tree, which is inclosed in an open court, paved with
stone. This is the town-hall of Banias, where the Shekh dispenses justice,
and at the same time, the resort of all the idlers of the place. We went
up among them, soon after our arrival, and were given seats of honor near
the Shekh, who talked with me a long time about America. The people
exhibit a very sensible curiosity, desiring to know the extent of our
country, the number of inhabitants, the amount of taxation, the price of
grain, and other solid information.
The Shekh and the men of the place inform us that the Druses are infesting
the road to Damascus. This tribe is in rebellion in Djebel Hauaran, on
account of the conscription, and some of them, it appears, have taken
refuge in the fastnesses of Hermon, where they are beginning to plunder
travellers. While I was talking with the Shekh, a Druse came down from the
mountains, and sat for half an hour among the villagers, under the
terebinth, and we have just heard that he has gone back the way he came.
This fact has given us some anxiety, as he may have been a spy sent down
to gather news and, if so, we are almost certain to be waylaid. If we were
well armed, we should not fear a dozen, but all our weapons consist of a
sword and four pistols. After consulting together, we decided to apply to
the Shekh for two armed men, to accompany us. I accordingly went to him
again, and exhibited the firman of the Pasha of Jerusalem, which he read,
stating that, even without it, he would have felt it his duty to grant our
request. This is the graceful way in which the Orientals submit to a
peremptory order. He thinks that one man will be sufficient, as we shall
probably not meet with any large party.
The day has been, and still is, excessively hot. The atmosphere is
sweltering, and all around us, over the thick patches of mallow and wild
mustard, the bees are humming with a continuous sultry sound. The Shekh,
with a number of lazy villagers, is still seated under the terebinth, in a
tent of shade, impervious to the sun. I can hear the rush of the fountains
of Banias--the holy springs of Hermon, whence Jordan is born. But what is
this? The odor of the velvety weed of Shiraz meets my nostrils; a
dark-eyed son of Pan places the narghileh at my feet; and, bubbling more
sweetly than the streams of Jordan, the incense most dear to the god dims
the crystal censer, and floats from my lips in rhythmic ejaculations. I,
too, am in Arcadia!