PALESTINE.
The journey to the Dead Sea is one undertaken by almost all
travellers—notwithstanding the dangers, more imaginary than real, by
which it is foreshadowed. Our dragoman was careful that our party
left their gold and watches with the banker, as there were Tumours of
an incursion of Bedouins from beyond Jordan. Indeed only some days
previously, as we subsequently learned, an English clergyman and his
companion had been seized at the eastern bank of the river and carried
captive into Moab, where they were held prisoners several days for a
heavy ransom.
Remounting our horses, we left the city in a southerly direction, to
see the Pools of Solomon, about seven miles distant from the city. These
consist of three large open reservoirs, from which the water supply of
Jerusalem seems to have been obtained, and is so yet to some extent. They
are very substantially built of stone. The water flows by gravitation
along a small and very circuitous aqueduct on the surface of the hill
sides, and covered merely with rough stones to protect it from the sun
and from being soiled by the camels. To bring water by such means so long
a distance, and along such a hilly country, is no mean engineering feat.
It is done here in a manner remarkable for it’s simplicity and apparent
efficiency. The aqueduct seemed to me very small in capacity—little more
than that of a 12-inch pipe—and being so, its great age proves how very
scientifically its fall and diameter had been mutually calculated, so
as, without creating any pressure, to exactly meet all the requirements
of the laws of hydraulics. Near this locality the path branches down
towards the Frank Mountain, where is the famous Cave of Adullam, which,
however, we did not visit.
From this we proceeded eastward to Bethlehem. I looked anxiously for
the celebrated plains of Bethlehem, but no plains were visible—on the
contrary, Bethlehem stands on high ground, on the eastern promontory
of what is called tableland, although by no means level. It looked
somewhat like a fortress in the distance, the most prominent object
being the Church of the Nativity, built over what is asserted to be
the manger in which our Saviour was laid, and clustering round it are
several monasteries, chapels, and religious houses of the Latins and
the other competing Christian sects. The church, which is I believe the
most ancient Christian church in the world, having been built by the
Princess Helena in the fourth century, is at present in a state of good
preservation. The rafters of the roof seem fresh timbers, although these
may have been oftener than once renewed since her day, but the double row
of fine Grecian columns of reddish-streaked grey marble are evidently
ancient.
Near the inner threshold is a marble star which we were once more told
marked the centre of the world. This church, like that of the Holy
Sepulchre, is in charge of the Turks, who divide its use equally to the
Latins, the Greeks, and the Armenians. Descending a stair of sixteen
steps from the north corner of the church, we enter a grotto or vault
probably nine to twelve feet high, and lighted by numerous silver
lamps, casting a gloom over the place much more like a sepulchre than
a birthplace. This vault is long and tortuous in shape, and contains
numerous cells or divisions, such as the Chapel of St. Jerome, Chapel of
the Innocents, Tombs of Jerome and Eusebius, Scene of the Vision, the
Magi’s Altar, and so on. But the principal is the Chapel of the Nativity,
an oblong crypt about thirty-six feet long, paved, and its walls lined
with polished marbles. The Recess, or Sacred Spot, is lighted by six
Greek silver lamps, five Armenian and four Latin, continually burning! (I
think a somewhat similar distribution of honours is made in the Church of
the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem.) Opposite is the Chapel of the Manger.
It is of white marble, and is claimed I think by the Latins. The jewels
and other ornaments and drapery in this vault are rich in the extreme.
There is a large silver star, with a Latin inscription, to mark the exact
spot of the nativity, and the veneration of the attendants and most
of the “pilgrims” is apparently quite as great as in the Sepulchre at
Jerusalem.
There has been a great deal of controversy about the genuineness of this
site of the Nativity. It is hewn out of the rock, as indeed is the whole
vault; and although caverns and grottoes are quite common in the East,
and probably were often used as stables, the shape and entrance to this
particular one seem peculiarly ill adapted for such a purpose. Little
or nothing, however, can be seen of the rock, as it is faced with marble
and concealed by the drapery, the silver and other ornaments. Farther
to the eastward, and at various distances beyond, are other buildings
and “holy places,” such as the “Milk Cavern,” another grotto of great
and miraculous virtue. Still farther eastward is shown the “Field of the
Shepherds” and the ruins of the “House of Joseph’s Dream;” and continuing
the descent eastward is shown the Field of Boaz, and beyond is a group
of olive trees in which is the Grotto of the Shepherds where the angels
first appeared to them. But many of these are contradictory; some are
openly disputed even there, and few of them are well founded even in
tradition.
I cannot say that I could ever feel enthusiastic interest in sights of
this kind, although they seem greatly to affect many visitors to the
Shrines. Altogether, I fear I made a very indifferent “Pilgrim” in the
East; and here I may mention, once for all, that the Arabs, as well
as the Jews and Christians of all sects, assume that all travellers
are bonâ fide “Pilgrims” travelling from religious motives to perform
devotions at particular shrines of their own church. Now I doubt if it
is right—in Protestants at least, is it not hypocritical?—to encourage
that misconception by offering acts of religious devotion at holy places
so called, or to relics. So far as possible therefore, without being
offensively singular, I endeavoured to do nothing indicating a desire
to be considered a religious pilgrim in any sense. It seems to me that
devotion of this kind always appears either silly or superstitious in
the eyes of a different religionist, and only tends to make him the more
highly value the imagined superior enlightenment of his own. I was glad
to observe that our party generally seemed to take a somewhat similar
view of this matter.
Much of the history of Palestine has come down to us from Jerome, well
known as an eminent Father of the Church. He was a man of extraordinary
energy, and seems to have left Rome towards the end of the fourth
century, to spend the remaining years of his life at Bethlehem. Here
he was followed by Paula, a wealthy widow lady of Rome, and her
daughter; they sought to retire from the world, like many other hermits
then, who entered convents, monasteries, and cells, from religious
motives—evidently sincere, however mistaken. The tombs of both are seen
in the chapel, and also a painting of Jerome and his lion.
There are several educational establishments in Bethlehem, nearly all of
them connected with religious houses. One is a German Protestant school,
with about fifty boys and girls attending.
Bethlehem is a most interesting country, and perhaps no place in
Palestine has been rendered more so by the events it has witnessed.
“And thou Bethlehem, the fruitful, art not the least among the princes
of Judah; for out of thee shall come a governor, that shall rule my
people Israel.” Here was the threshing-floor of Boaz, vividly recalling
the exquisitely beautiful story of Ruth and Naomi, and yonder in the
distance, over the vast gulf of the Dead Sea, were the Mountains of Moab,
nearly twenty miles distant, but looking almost at hand, so bright and
pure is the atmosphere.
These Mountains of Moab, once seen, impress the mind very strongly,
because of their peculiar formation and colour. I forget whether Mr.
Ruskin has seen them—I imagine he would thoroughly appreciate and enjoy
this scene. Rising almost precipitously from the borders of the Dead
Sea, they have, seen in the blaze of the afternoon sun, a peculiar
warm purply-tinged orange colour—perfectly bare, being without the
appearance of a shrub or living thing. This also was the locality of
Jesse’s inheritance: here David was brought up, and, in the wilderness
immediately to the south, this boy shepherd watched his father’s flocks,
slaying the lion and the bear: and here Samuel anointed him King over
Israel. Near this also is the well of which he so anxiously desired to
drink when fleeing from Saul, and hiding in the many caves which abound
in the vicinity—besides many other Bible scenes and incidents familiar to
all of us. And here undoubtedly our Saviour was born into the world. Of
course, the _exact_ spot of each scene and incident is as usual pointed
out.
Whatever quibbles or doubts may arise thereon, this seems certain, that
here within range of the eye they were once acted out, and that over
these plains, as they are called, was heard the heavenly song, “Peace
on earth and good-will to men;” alas! how soon to be followed by that
bitter cry of Rachel weeping for her murdered children. Bordering this,
on the north, is the field in which Jacob buried his beloved Rachel, and
her tomb “is shown at this day.” The tombs of the Patriarchs, however,
are at Hebron, the Royal City and the capital of Judea before the days
of David. It is situated at Mamre, about twenty miles farther south
upon the high land, west of the Dead Sea. So Jacob relates upon his
death-bed—“Bury me with my fathers in the cave that is in the field of
Machpelah, which is before Mamre, which Abraham bought for a possession
of a burying-place. There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there
they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah.”
The Moslems hold these Tombs in extreme veneration—second only to those
of the Prophets’ Mosque at Mecca, and all attempts to enter their
enclosures and vaults are looked upon as highly sacrilegious.
There once stood Abram’s tent, from which he looked and beheld the smoke
of the burning “cities of the plain,” which now lie overwhelmed by the
bituminous salt water of the Dead Sea, to mark Heaven’s detestation of
their crimes; and perhaps also of war. For that now submerged valley was
probably the first battlefield of the world, where were slain the Kings
of Sodom and Gomorrah, when Lot was made prisoner and carried off to the
north by the conquering Kings Chederlaomer and his confederates, but soon
to be delivered by the brave little army of Abraham.
The inhabitants of Bethlehem are good-looking—more so than any other I
saw in the East, and chiefly Christians, there being very few Mahomedans
in the place. The faces of the women generally are uncovered, and
altogether the people have a more homely look than any other we came
amongst in our journey. Instead of the weary-looking, peering faces with
which we had been so long accustomed, the open countenances and uncovered
faces showed a different state of civilization, at least so far as the
women are concerned, and for which I hope Christianity is to be credited.
The so-called “veil” now in use in Eastern countries must, I think, be a
Mahomedan invention—very different from that of Rebekah, who could never
have worn anything so ugly.
There is a good deal of wine made at Bethlehem, and it is said to be
the best in Palestine, which, however, is no great boast. Many little
articles, and vases of stinkstone from the Dead Sea, are also made for
pilgrims.
From Bethlehem, we again re-mounted on our journey eastward for Mara
Saba, which lies half-way down the rapid descent to the Dead Sea. Mara
Saba, which we reached in the afternoon, in good time to erect our tents,
is a “Convent,” as it is called, but in the East this word I found is by
no means confined to houses of nuns, but seems to include monasteries as
well. Originally it consisted of both—the Kedron stream between—but owing
to a serious scandal which arose, the nuns’ convent was suppressed. It
is a huge structure, built on the brow of a steep rock—fit site for an
eagle’s nest rather than a human habitation. Here the river Kedron leaps
in its course downward to the Dead Sea, but by this time its channel was
almost dry. The Convent is always readily opened for the reception of
travellers, but is walled and guarded most carefully, from fear of attack
by the Bedouins, and no communication can be made except by a basket
let down from the wall over the gate, by which introductory letters and
other articles are conveyed into the Convent. Unfortunately, or rather
I ought to say fortunately, our party consisted partly of ladies, whom
the monks do not appear to appreciate as they deserve, for no female is
admitted within the walls on any consideration. And those who have read
the travels of Madame Pfeiffer round the world will remember that she had
to sleep outside alone in an old tower, although all the other members of
her party were admitted within the walls—certainly a lonely post for a
lady to occupy.
But we were provided with our travelling tents, and were therefore
independent; besides, we were amply protected, having been followed
on this day’s journey by a Turkish escort—obtained through the English
Consul—consisting of the Sheik’s son and two Arab soldiers, besides our
own servants—by no means a weak party. The young Sheik—a handsome man
and very handsomely dressed—was mounted on one of the finest Arabian
horses I have seen, but the whole affair of the guard appears to me
very much of a farce, for I think that the Bedouins—_always seen in the
distance_—against whom these precautions were taken, are merely used for
the purpose of frightening strangers from travelling east of the Jordan,
and to prevent them from dispensing with costly guards, dragomans, and
the like.
However, our Sheik guard behaved very gallantly, showing us his wonderful
horsemanship and the powers of his Arabian, which far surpassed anything
I ever saw at a circus.
The figures of these Arab horsemen are familiar to all, from pictures
at least. The gun, nearly six feet long, slung on their back, with the
long tasselled spear in hands, are drawn to the life; and when the young
chief actually galloped his horse up hilly mounds very steep, fencing
dexterously the while with his Turkish scimitar, the sight was very
picturesque. And then, when he returned to make his salaams before the
ladies, which he did in purely Eastern style, it was evident he was a man
of some breeding.
The males of us visited the Convent, introduced by our dragoman, and
here we found the establishment in full operation. It was founded by a
religious recluse, named Saba, about the end of the fifth century, and
must, from the peculiarity of the site and the strength of the walls,
have cost a great amount of money and labour in its erection. Seen
from below it has a very imposing appearance, and to stand on its east
balcony and look down its rocky foundation—a sheer declivity of more
than 500 feet—require a clear head and an eagle eye. Saba seems to
have been a prince of anchorites, a man of extraordinary sanctity, and,
as his historian shows, a worker of miracles. He drew around him many
followers, and must have been a person of considerable importance in the
Greek Church, to which he belonged. On taking possession of the place,
he found a small den scooped out in the rock, occupied by a lion; but
the lion reverentially vacated, and left the saint in possession of the
cell, which he occupied as his bed. Whether the noble animal remained his
attendant, as in the similar case of Jerome, is not related. The cell is
yet shown, and is certainly more fit for a lion than a man. His other
miracles consisted in creating a well of excellent water at the Convent,
and in planting a palm tree, whose fruit is a talismanic cure for the
sick matrons of Judea; but as it grows within the walls, and no dealings
whatever are tolerated with their sex, it is difficult to see how its
virtues can be availed of. But cell, well, and tree are all to be seen
at this day; and, therefore, is it possible to doubt the truth of either
of them?
Saba died at the advanced age of ninety-four. The Convent’s history
has not been altogether a peaceful one; indeed it may well be called a
fortress convent. It was attacked by the Persian General in the seventh
century, when forty-four of the monks were killed, and it formed a point
of some importance during the struggles of the Crusaders, besides being
frequently menaced by the Bedouins, who are still supposed to watch
continually for an opportunity of carrying off its treasures—said to
be great. The building consists of a great number of cells, galleries,
courts, and stairs; within, its tiny chapel is literally covered with
silver. There is a tomb of Saba, but it is empty, his bones having been
carried off to Venice. The monks are—about seventy in number—a poor
and a very unintellectual-looking set of men, somewhat plainly and
shabbily dressed; many of them seem never to stir beyond the walls of
the Convent, and their lives are strictly ascetic. Their whole time
is occupied in religious services, in the washing and cooking of the
establishment, and making walking canes and strings of beads, crosses,
and shells—for which there is a large demand by travellers. All these
are valued as curiosities, but are really worthless for any practical
use. They have a library with some MSS., said to be valuable, which
they neither seem to read nor allow others to do so. The washing tubs,
I remember, were of hewn stone; and I daresay were ladies admitted,
they would notice in the housekeeping many things very defective and
ridiculous—altogether the whole place had a very primitive and sleepy
appearance. In a recess of one of the walls of the chapel is shown a heap
of skulls, said to be those of “the 10,000 martyrs—cross-bearers of a
former age.” I should think the recess would not hold above a hundredth
part of that number.
Next morning found us in the saddle for the Dead Sea and the Jordan, and
here we began a descent of more than four hours’ ride, down one of the
wildest and steepest ravines in the East. In this locality are hundreds
of cells cut in the face of the rocks, presently inhabited by jackals.
They seem to have been originally selected by hermits of all nations in
the Middle Ages, who, disgusted with themselves or the world, settled
there under the hope of living holy and meritorious lives. How sincerely
well meant, but how vain the attempt, and how pregnant with future evils
to the Church and the world, history can tell! How unlike to the poor,
hiding, persecuted Christians of the Waldenses and of Scotland! They too
were content to live in caves, but were hunted like partridges upon the
mountains—“they lived unknown till persecution dragged them into fame,
and chased them up to heaven!”[5] Deep down, and very frequently in view
during the journey, lay the Dead Sea, glancing in the sunbeams as I
thought at one time like lead, and at another like silver. The scene was
altogether barren in the extreme.
The Dead Sea is forty miles long, and about eight in width. On its north
and west shore is a pebbly and muddy beach without shell or trace of
living creature, so far as I observed; no vegetation surrounds it, and
for our usual noonday lunch we could obtain no shade from the sun: I had
to use my umbrella, and can now better understand Jonah’s complaint over
his withered Gourd, and the beauty of the prophet’s figure—“The shadow
of a great rock in a weary land!” On its banks near its junction with
the Jordan are a number of reeds, but they were perfectly withered and
brittle, probably irrigated, however, by some stray streams from that
river at the period of its annual overflow. Altogether the scene was the
wildest and most death-like of any I have ever seen, and had an extremely
depressing effect on the spirits, for which no doubt an unwonted
atmosphere was also to blame. So intense was the heat at this level, the
lowest spot on the earth’s surface—being 1300 feet under the level of
the Mediterranean Sea, and more than 3700 under that of Jerusalem—that
three of our party who had made a tour of the world, said they had never
experienced heat so intolerable, not even under the equator, nor yet on
the Red Sea voyage.
It seems obvious that the Dead Sea water surface was at no very
distant era several hundred feet higher in level. This fact, I think,
incidentally indicates the former fertility of Palestine, because a
luxurious vegetation would produce more rain, and consequently a larger
volume of water supply by the Jordan and its tributaries than in modern
times.
Some say a miasma rises from the slime beds of the Dead Sea which induces
depression of spirits and excessive fatigue. This is possible, but
probably imagination has something to do with the feeling. True it is,
however, that neither man nor living thing tarries many hours in its
vicinity; nor is boat seen on its silent solitary waters, although from
their high specific gravity everything floatable swims on its surface
with remarkable buoyancy. Even the naval officer who undertook to survey
its boundaries and sound its depths has done so very imperfectly, driven
off, if I remember aright, by sickness. The waters of the Dead Sea
contain nearly a fourth part of solid matter, of which one-half is common
salt. It is said the bottom or bed of the sea is of asphalt, and lumps
of bitumen are frequently seen thrown up on its shores, as also some
Hakes of sulphur. The sense of solitude is awful, nor can I imagine any
punishment more severe than to be left here alone for even a single week.
The Valley of the Dead Sea is surely the most extraordinary fact of
geography. Its waters have been sounded, and found 1320 feet deep, so
that its bottom is nearly a mile lower than Jerusalem! Ever filling, and
without egress, yet it is never full—assuredly no unfit type of the
“valley of the shadow of death!”
Bathing our hands in its waters, a disagreeable feeling remained until we
had afterwards washed them in the Jordan, further on in the afternoon.
Without spending the whole hour usually allotted for mid-day lunch, we
resumed our journey, gradually ascending to the north, along the deep
Jordan valley, until we reached what is usually called the Ford of the
Jordan, said to be the spot crossed by Joshua, and where the waters
retired before the Ark.
This south position of the Jordan valley is extremely barren. Rising very
precipitously on its west boundary is a mountain, in the upper portion of
which are numerous cells, which in the early Christian era were inhabited
by many hermits of the most self-denying class. This locality seems to
have been chosen because practically inaccessible, unless by using ropes.
In the valley are remains of one or two monasteries, and a church of St.
John. Here was the scene of John the Baptist’s preaching, and of his
baptising in the Jordan; and here at different points on the river the
rival sects now have periodical gatherings for the same purpose. Gilgal
must have been in this locality.
All are so familiar with pictures of the Jordan that I need scarcely
attempt to describe it here. We were somewhat disappointed with its size,
but then the water had fallen at that time within the level of the lower
bank of the stream. However, when the river is in flood and overflows
even its upper bank, the volume of water it throws into the Dead Sea must
be very great, its velocity being high, owing to the great declivity of
its course, which, while nearly in line, is extremely serpentine. Seen
as we saw it, the feat of crossing the Jordan looked easy, but I can now
imagine why the sacred penman lays so great stress upon the bravery of
the eleven shepherd men of Gad, who so nobly came to the help of David.
“Men of might, men of war fit for the battle, whose faces were like the
faces of lions, and were swift as the roes upon the mountains.” “These
are they that went over Jordan, even in the first month, when it had
overflown all his banks.” And seen at such a time, the force and beauty
of the prophet’s language must have deeply impressed the mind. “If thou
hast run with the footmen and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou
contend with horses?” And, “If in the land of peace they wearied thee,
then how wilt thou do in the swellings of Jordan?” Here we partially
bathed in its stream, and found it deliciously refreshing after the
journey of the forenoon.
The valley of the Jordan rises gradually towards the north, and it is
difficult to conceive a spot more combining all the requirements of a
“Garden of the Lord.” The climate is tropical, the soil loamy, with ample
means of perfect irrigation, of course quite neglected, and although
protected from stormy winds by the surrounding amphitheatre of hills,
it is little better than a waste. A few good vines were visible, and
here and there an attempt at cultivation, generally ludicrous from its
failure, presented itself to the eye.
The lower bank of the Jordan is covered with trees, but I was
disappointed greatly with their size—probably the best are cut down by
charcoal burners—while otherwise the scene was more like a wilderness
than a garden. No habitations visible, except a few straggling mud huts
amidst a thicket of hedges, and surrounded with an ample vegetation of
thorns and briars, with some gum and balsam plants and apples of Sodom.
We reached them after three hours’ ride, just as the sun was going
down—and this was Jericho! Situated about six miles westward of the
Jordan, it consists of only one stately ruin, stone-built, somewhat like
an old khan, recently converted into a lodge for travellers. It is of
course the house which concealed the spies of Joshua, and from which
the scarlet thread was displayed; but we, for good reasons, preferred
sleeping in our own tents.
After eating our usual dinner, we threw ourselves upon our beds,
thoroughly fatigued, for this was to me by far the most trying day of
our travels; and those only who have passed through similar experience
can imagine how very sweet rest was. It was too early to sleep—indeed,
my enjoyment of _rest_, pure and simple, was too great to permit it;
but we had not so reclined for half an hour when we heard a concert in
our immediate neighbourhood, for which we certainly were not prepared.
This consisted of music and dancing, or rather two dances, of which the
Arabs formed one, and their women formed the other at some distance. The
evening was totally dark, but numerous pine or pitch torches were held
up, and the scene presented was more extraordinary than pleasing. To a
quick monotonous pipe and drum kind of music and clapping of hands,
the men, forming a large circle, danced in pairs and otherwise, while
the Chief, armed with a very large scimitar, exactly like that in the
picture-books, with which Blue Beard beheaded his unfortunate wives,
danced round the ring.
By way of honour to the “Pilgrims,” he, as he finished each circuit,
aimed a blow at the tip of our noses alternately, which, however, he
made a point of missing, with more dexterity on his part than enjoyment
on ours. The women’s dance, which I did not happen to see, was still
more boisterous, and was enjoyed by another party of travellers—chiefly
Germans—whom we had met at the Jordan banks in the afternoon. Both
women and men evidently belonged to the Bedouin Arabs, swarthy and
dark-coloured, with bright eyes and prominent teeth. I observed an
encampment of tents on the north—probably theirs; these tents are woven
of camels’ hair, and seen from a distance may well be described “black as
the tents of Kedar.”
Each party of us was separately informed through his dragoman that
this exhibition was a very high distinction indeed, and got up for our
special honour—the meaning of which was—bakshish. In the glare of the
torchlight these Arabs had more the appearance of wild Indians than any
we had met with as yet, and I rather think they had come from the eastern
side of the Jordan. The Bedouin women are not often veiled. All classes
of maidens in Palestine—Christians included—generally wear a string of
silver and gold coins round their brow, said to be their “fortune,” and
in some instances these would be in value about three pounds sterling.
They sometimes tint their nails with a vermilion colour, of a very fine
shade—how procured I am uncertain.
I regret we did not spend another day at Jericho to inspect this
naturally rich valley. It appears from remains of ancient aqueducts and
irrigation works to have at one time been remarkably fertile; but as
everywhere under Turkish rule, even the most fertile and finest portions
of the world have become, like this, a wilderness.
Next morning we resumed our journey up to Jerusalem—this time by
ascending the mountain path to Bethany, celebrated in Gospel history
as the road of the man who fell among thieves, and certainly the way
gradually became wilder and wilder, and more and more rocky, each hour
of our journey. Near the bottom of our ascent was a large fountain, or
rather its remains, with ample proofs of fertility, and with very little
culture there was some show of verdure amidst the wilderness around.
This is supposed, I think without much reason, to have been the scene of
Elijah’s retreat during the years of famine, when—by the ravens—bread
was given him and his water was sure. Caves abound there, and at the
bottom of a ravine, much farther up on our path, was said to be the brook
Cherith, identified with the history of this prophet. There was upon
our upward journey almost no appearance of human dwellings, except a few
ruins of houses and a solitary, ruinous khan, of considerable extent,
which of course is the inn to which the good Samaritan carried the
wounded man; and if you doubt it, you can still see the trough at which
his beast was watered.
There must at one time have been a considerable traffic on this road,
because it is the only practicable one between Jericho and Jerusalem;
and if one were trying to picture a scene in keeping with the story, it
would be difficult to describe a better than this. Although a Russian
princess is said to have recently sent a thousand pounds to repair the
road—she having been dismounted in making the journey down—it is still
scarcely worthy of the name, and safe only for an Eastern beast of
burden. It ascends along the side of a precipitous mountain range, and is
bounded on the right hand by wadies and deep gorges, dividing, I think,
Judea from the hills of Samaria beyond, and on which I could perceive it
utterly vain to attempt the capture of thieves, even although in sight of
them.
Here, as elsewhere in Judea, the mountain sides are burrowed with caverns
of all sizes and shapes, affording excellent hiding-places, similar to
the celebrated cave of Adullam, farther south. About mid-day the sky
became overcast, a thunderstorm came on, and our waterproofs were, for
the first time in our journey, unfolded. Under a cave, open in front,
we rested for half an hour, until the storm had passed over; but the
atmosphere had become very much cooler, and formed an extraordinary
contrast to the temperature of the previous day on the banks of the Dead
Sea.
Towards afternoon we approached, or rather our horses climbed up (without
our stopping to kiss the “stone of rest”) into the village of Bethany,
which is nestled within less than a mile of the summit of the Mount of
Olives, over which the road passes, but is on the eastern slope of the
mountain, and therefore quite unseen from Jerusalem.
Bethany is associated with many beautiful and tender events in the life
of our Saviour; and we were scarcely pleased to find that so interesting
a spot consisted only of a few ordinary buildings, crowded together,
with, however, a few trees—olive, fig, and almond, and by no means
answering to my preconceived notions of the village. Its site indeed
is undoubtedly very fine; eastward over the Jordan Valley, the Land of
Bashan and the mountains of Moab were seen, with Mount Pisgah in the
distance; while northward stretched the green foliage of the Jordan
banks, and parallel therewith in the east the long barren range of the
mountains of Ephraim. From this point also must be visible the spot
from which our Lord ascended to His Father. No doubt the monks show the
traditional “Mount of the Ascension” on the opposite slope of Olivet,
and there as usual they have erected an imposing tower with several
chapels or shrines over the spot. It is a most improbable one, being in
full view of the city, whereas we read that He led His disciples over the
Mount of Olives “as far as Bethany;” and there, in bidding them farewell,
a cloud received Him out of their sight. On the extreme north of the view
towered Mount Hermon, capped with its bonnet of snow. This mountain,
indeed, is seen from almost every eminence in Palestine and Syria, and is
a strikingly grand object from all of them. It appeared near, as indeed
distant objects all do, to a remarkable degree, in the singularly pure
atmosphere of Palestine—even more so than in Egypt—and, to an unpractised
eye, the distance of such objects seems only a day’s journey, when in
reality it may be four or five.
We were of course shown the house of Martha and Mary, and the grave of
Lazarus—the latter a low stone erection in the limestone rock on the
roadside, covered with rubbish in front of the opening of the tomb. It is
in possession of the Turks, who venerate Lazarus, and they have a small
mosque adjacent. Near is a ruinous tower, called the Castle of Lazarus,
possibly older than the Crusades.
On arriving at the summit of Olivet we had again a view of Jerusalem at
its best, lighted up as it then was by the sinking sun, which gilded its
numerous minarets and domes, and its every coigne of vantage. We reached
our old quarters at the hotel by sunset.
Like most other Eastern cities, Jerusalem is divided into religious
“Quarters”—the Jewish (recently getting crowded), the Mahomedan, the
Armenian, and the Christian; and there has recently been built what
may be called a Russian Quarter, of imposing appearance and extent,
outside the walls on the west. Our hotel was in the Christian quarter.
The principal sects of the Christians are the Greeks, the Armenians,
and the Latins, as the Roman Catholics are called. Each of these has
a Church, abutting upon the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. With the
Roman Catholic Churches most readers are familiar, the Greek Churches
are somewhat similar; but not so exquisitely finished as the Latin or
Roman Catholic ones; more pictures, but few or no images are there. The
Armenian Churches are plainer than either of the other two, and seemed
well attended. Besides these there are several other smaller sects, such
as the Maronites and Druses.
Jerusalem seems to have originally stood upon three hills, Mount Moriah
on the south; Mount Sion, the City of David, on the west (these were
once separated by the Tyropean Valley), and Bezatha, or north town. It
was strongly defended by walls and towers, especially toward the north.
Time and war have, however, filled up the valleys, and now the city may
be described as built upon an elevated plateau, surrounded on all sides
by deep wadies or valleys, except on the north, where it is almost level
with the mountains of Benjamin. Within its present walls it is difficult
to account for the large population of ancient Jerusalem, but I think
it is evident that the long-descending slope on the south of Mount Sion
had once been thickly populated, and that otherwise, more especially on
the north-west, the population had overflowed largely beyond the present
walls. The name Sion appears in prophetic Scripture to have sometimes
included Mount Moriah; indeed, the topography of the city is involved in
much obscurity and endless controversy.
Jerusalem is nearly, if not entirely, surrounded with tombs. Perhaps
no city in the world presents evidence of so vast a congregation of
the dead—altogether disproportionate to its present size. The Moslem
population does not mix with the Jewish or Christian even in the grave.
Its great Valley of Jehoshaphat is a vast graveyard, or rather two,
for its western slope surrounding the city walls downward is nearly
covered with the well-known Moslem tombs, while the larger eastern and
southern slopes of the valley are crowded with countless multitudes of
the “Ancient People.” Both parties—Jew and Moslem—look with superstitious
interest upon Jehoshaphat valley as the seat of that Grand Assize where
the Supreme Ruler is to judge the world. It is large and spacious, but
seems small for so vast a gathering. To meet this objection, they believe
that the valley is on that day to be widened out by a great earthquake,
so that every man shall both see and hear the dread sentences pronounced!
Modern Jerusalem is a city of religious buildings, chiefly
Christian—Greek, Armenian, and Roman Catholic. The last named are least
numerous, but have the finest churches. They are by no means liked by
the other sects; perhaps because formerly too zealously patronized by
the French Imperial Government. There are about forty monasteries, with
numerous churches, chapels, mosques, synagogues, &c., besides hospices,
hospitals, and other charitable institutions, with two Protestant and a
few nunnery schools. Notwithstanding a sad want of cleanliness, Jerusalem
is generally healthy, owing to its fine site and pure atmosphere.
The tabernacles of the Jews in Palestine are simple in the extreme. With
four bare walls, generally whitewashed, a portion of the floor somewhat
elevated, and a plain desk or pulpit, they form a perfect contrast to the
richly and perhaps somewhat finically and over-decorated churches of the
Christians.
The mosques, on the other hand, although often looking somewhat decayed,
have a quiet air of age and stately grandeur about them which none of the
others can approach, arising more from simple architectural beauty and
size than rich and costly ornamentation. Large, lofty, and open, heavily
carpeted on the floors, and lighted generally from high up in the walls
or cupola by small windows of exquisitely coloured glass—not, however, in
great glaring masses of colour as with us—they have always an atmosphere
gratefully refreshing in the warm climate. There is an appearance of
extreme reverence and quietude about the worshippers, who kneel in small
groups of four or five, with their faces towards Mecca, always indicated
by a small niche recess in the wall, and repeat their prayers audibly
with frequent bowings to the ground—contrasting favourably with the
pompous ceremonial and sensuous worship of the Christians in the churches
around them.
As to Protestant Christians, they appear to be quite unknown to the
Moslems, who despise Christians as a class, considering them ignorant and
superstitious—idolatrous and “hating one another.” And yet they who, like
Mahomet, preach Charity as the foundation of all religion, are themselves
in practice the most cruel and intolerant of all—and are indeed the chief
upholders of slavery in the East. I fear indeed that intolerance will so
continue until all parties begin to teach Charity—not in _words as now_,
“but in _deed_ and in _truth_.”
One great source of disappointment to our party, here as elsewhere during
our journey, was the non-receipt of letters. There is no English Post
Office, but three others; however no delivery is made. Although our
letters were addressed to one of the two bankers in the city, he assured
us that there was nothing but uncertainty as to delivery, and everywhere
we found it so, for in the East, Egypt now excepted, nothing seems so
unimportant as letters, and although you may not discover where your
own are, you may on payment of the postage often get as many of other
people’s as you choose to take at the numerous so-called “Post Offices!”
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