JAFFA TO JERUSALEM.
You see nothing of Jerusalem till you get inside the city, and to enjoy a
visit requires a greater enthusiasm than any to which I can lay claim.
We were safely landed at Jaffa, which by this time ought to have a more
decent landing-place; thence, after a glance at the house where Simon the
Tanner carried on business, I made my way—along tortuous roads, more or
less blocked with stones and rubbish, and more or less exposed to a
burning sun—to the station, whence we were to start for Jerusalem, a hot
ride of nearly four hours in railway-carriages of very second-rate
quality. The land about Jaffa is fertile and well cultivated; fig-trees
and olive-trees and orange-groves are abundant, and at Jaffa the chief
business seemed to be packing them in boxes for export. At one
particular spot our conductor told us that it was there that Samson set
the cornfields of the Philistines on fire. Certainly the ground seemed
dry and baked up enough. Then Arithmea was reached. On our way we got
our first sight of a native village, built of mud huts, into which it
seemed difficult to find an entrance. A Kaffir village is infinitely to
be preferred. The scene of desolation was complete. On the neighbouring
rocks nothing was to be seen but flocks of goats. A little fairer scene
opened on us as we passed the neat German colony that has settled down
here, almost under the shadow of the walls of Jerusalem. Then the
terminus is gained, and we are whirled in a cloud of dust, in rickety
carriages, driven by their hoarsely-shouting drivers at full gallop, all
of us white as millers, being clothed with dust. I wash at Howard’s
Hotel, swallow a cup of tea, and, as we do not dine till six, make my way
into Jerusalem by the Jaffa Gate. A little of Jerusalem goes a long way.
It is dark and stifling, swarming with people and camels and asses, and
noisy beyond description. A sort of Rag Fair, only with a few touches of
the East, such as a veiled woman, or a stately Turk in turban and flowing
robes, or a black-coated, black-bearded Greek priest, or a low row of
shopkeepers, sitting patiently in their dark and tiny shops, thrown in.
You must keep moving, or you will be run over by a donkey or a camel,
for, as the country round Jerusalem grows nothing, the necessaries of
life have all to be brought from a distance. My respected countrymen and
countrywomen are in a state of gush all the while, not to be wondered at
when you think of the Jerusalem of David, and Solomon, and Jesus Christ.
As it is in reality, I own I see very little to gush about. I reach the
Via Dolorosa—there is no trace of Christ there; I pass the Church of the
Sepulchre and the mosque which marks the site where Solomon built his
Temple. I think of the royal Psalmist who here poured forth the wailings
of his heart in language which has formed the penitential chant of all
the ages. But if I would see the Christ I must get out of this city, all
crammed with lies and living upon lies. I muse by myself in the Garden
of Gethsemane; I climb the Mount of Olives. It is outside the city, away
from [Picture: Jerusalem: via Dolorosa and Pontius Pilate’s House] its
old and new churches, that I see the living Christ and Calvary, and feel
how true it is that
‘Each soul redeemed from sin and death
Must know its Calvary.’
I have had enough of Jerusalem. My fellow-travellers leave me to go to
Jericho. I have no wish to be sent to Jericho, and prefer to remain
under the grateful shelter of my hotel, just outside the Jaffa Gate.
What strikes me most is the prosperity of the place. It is growing fast,
in spite of Turkish rule. The people are robbed by the tax-collectors;
nevertheless, the place gains, and the population outside the city walls
is quite as great as that within. One reason, of course, is that wealthy
Christians in England and America spend large sums of money in keeping up
proselytizing establishments here, and in erecting fine buildings for the
same end. Of course we have a Bishop here, but he is High Church, and
seems, from all I hear, more inclined to bridge over the gulf between his
Church and the Greek than to promote general and undenominational
Christian work. The number of poor Jews is enormous. They come here
from all parts of the world to die in the Sacred City, and have many
charities established on their behalf. The Britisher has this
advantage—that he pays no taxes. The Jew is not permitted to hold a bit
of land unless he has been a resident here five years. The Turk holds
Jerusalem to be a sacred city only second to Mecca. No wonder, then,
that the nations have fought bitterly for the possession of its so-called
sacred shrines; no wonder that Christians from all parts of the world
hasten to Jerusalem, and that you meet in the streets and shops and
hotels such a mixture of men and women—brought by excursion-parties from
London—as, perhaps, you have never seen before, and, perchance, may wish
never to see again. I suppose it has ever been so. Those old Crusaders
must have been rather a mixed lot. As it is, [Picture: View from St.
Stephen’s Gate, with Russian Church and Garden of Gethsemane] the Russian
Church seems most in evidence. It has spent, apparently, a great deal of
money in building purposes. Its new church, half-way up the Mount of
Olives, is one of the finest buildings to be seen outside the walls. The
Russian is wily; he knows what he is about—at any rate, better than many
of his rivals in the race for empire.
I think most of my party are getting tired of Jerusalem—even the clergy,
of whom we have many. Exertion of any kind is painful on these dusty
highways and under this blazing sun. There has been no rain for six
months, and the Jews in the synagogue are praying for it daily, and yet
it seems as far off as ever. One thing that is really enjoyable is the
cool splendour of these cloudless skies by night. I have seen the moon
rise in many lands, but never—no, not even under the Southern Cross—a
moon so full, so fair, so bright, as that of Judæa, as it throws its
silvery light over old walls and peasants’ huts, on hill and dale—I may
not say ancient ruins, for all is new outside Jerusalem, and as regards
most of the city a similar remark may be made. For Saracen and Roman
have devastated and destroyed entirely the real Jerusalem, which is now
only being disinterred by the labours of the agents of the Palestine
Exploration Fund, of whom Dr. Bliss is the chief.
The Jews preponderate everywhere, apparently poor and depressed. The
real Turk, sleek and well robed, is an imposing figure, but the
dragomans—chiefly Greeks, or of the Greek Church—are active and
intelligent, and very ready to use their English, of which, apparently,
they have but an imperfect knowledge. The Jews speak the common dialect
of the country, but are taught Hebrew in the many schools established for
their benefit. The food displayed in their cook-shops is, however, by no
means tempting, and nowhere, unless it be at such an international hotel
as that of Chevalier Howard, is the commissariat department very strong.
But we have clean, cool, delightful bedrooms. And Mr. Chevalier himself
is a remarkably intelligent and active man, and offers the traveller
facilities for excursions such as he can find nowhere else. When one
thinks of Palestine and the place it fills in the world’s history, it is
hard to realize what a small extent of country it contains. Its length
is about 200 miles, and its average breadth 75 miles. On one side is the
Mediterranean Sea, and on the other the desert plain of Arabia. A
mountain range runs through it from north to south. Its chief rivers are
the Jordan, the Litany, the Abana, and the Pharpar. I fancy it is better
to come here in the spring than in the autumn.