FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM
It took an hour or more to get our little caravan into marching order,
to accommodate all the packs to the horses, the horses to the riders;
to see the ladies comfortably placed in their litter, with a sleek and
large black mule fore and aft, a groom to each mule, and a tall and
exceedingly good-natured and mahogany-coloured infidel to walk by the
side of the carriage, to balance it as it swayed to and fro, and to
offer his back as a step to the inmates whenever they were minded to
ascend or alight. These three fellows, fasting through the Ramazan, and
over as rough a road, for the greater part, as ever shook mortal bones,
performed their fourteen hours’ walk of near forty miles with the most
admirable courage, alacrity, and good-humour. They once or twice drank
water on the march, and so far infringed the rule; but they refused all
bread or edible refreshment offered to them, and tugged on with an
energy that the best camel, and I am sure the best Christian, might
envy. What a lesson of good-humoured endurance it was to certain Pall
Mall Sardanapaluses, who grumble if club sofa cushions are not soft
enough!
If I could write sonnets at leisure, I would like to chronicle in
fourteen lines my sensations on finding myself on a high Turkish
saddle, with a pair of fire-shovel stirrups and worsted reins, red
padded saddle-cloth, and innumerable tags, fringes, glass-beads, ends
of rope, to decorate the harness of the horse, the gallant steed on
which I was about to gallop into Syrian life. What a figure we cut in
the moonlight, and how they would have stared in the Strand! Ay, or in
Leicestershire, where I warrant such a horse and rider are not often
visible! The shovel stirrups are deucedly short; the clumsy leathers
cut the shins of some equestrians abominably; you sit over your horse
as it were on a tower, from which the descent would be very easy, but
for the big peak of the saddle. A good way for the inexperienced is to
put a stick or umbrella across the saddle peak again, so that it is
next to impossible to go over your horse’s neck. I found this a vast
comfort in going down the hills, and recommend it conscientiously to
other dear simple brethren of the city.
Peaceful men, we did not ornament our girdles with pistols, yataghans,
&c., such as some pilgrims appeared to bristle all over with; and as a
lesson to such rash people, a story may be told which was narrated to
us at Jerusalem, and carries a wholesome moral. The Honourable Hoggin
Armer, who was lately travelling in the East, wore about his stomach
two brace of pistols, of such exquisite finish and make, that a Sheikh,
in the Jericho country, robbed him merely for the sake of the pistols.
I don’t know whether he has told the story to his friends at home.
Another story about Sheikhs may here be told a propos. That celebrated
Irish Peer, Lord Oldgent (who was distinguished in the Buckinghamshire
Dragoons), having paid a sort of black mail to the Sheikh of Jericho
country, was suddenly set upon by another Sheikh, who claimed to be the
real Jerichonian governor; and these twins quarrelled over the body of
Lord Oldgent, as the widows for the innocent baby before Solomon. There
was enough for both—but these digressions are interminable.
The party got under way at near four o’clock: the ladies in the litter,
the French femme-de-chambre manfully caracoling on a grey horse; the
cavaliers, like your humble servant, on their high saddles; the
domestics, flunkeys, guides, and grooms, on all sorts of animals,—some
fourteen in all. Add to these, two most grave and stately Arabs in
white beards, white turbans, white haicks and raiments; sabres curling
round their military thighs, and immense long guns at their backs. More
venerable warriors I never saw; they went by the side of the litter
soberly prancing. When we emerged from the steep clattering streets of
the city into the grey plains, lighted by the moon and starlight, these
militaries rode onward, leading the way through the huge avenues of
strange diabolical-looking prickly pears (plants that look as if they
had grown in Tartarus), by which the first mile or two of route from
the city is bounded; and as the dawn arose before us, exhibiting first
a streak of grey, then of green, then of red in the sky, it was fine to
see these martial figures defined against the rising light. The sight
of that little cavalcade, and of the nature around it, will always
remain with me, I think, as one of the freshest and most delightful
sensations I have enjoyed since the day I first saw Calais pier. It was
full day when they gave their horses a drink at a large pretty Oriental
fountain, and then presently we entered the open plain—the famous plain
of Sharon—so fruitful in roses once, now hardly cultivated, but always
beautiful and noble.
Here presently, in the distance, we saw another cavalcade pricking over
the plain. Our two white warriors spread to the right and left, and
galloped to reconnoitre. We, too, put our steeds to the canter, and
handling our umbrellas as Richard did his lance against Saladin, went
undaunted to challenge this caravan. The fact is, we could distinguish
that it was formed of the party of our pious friends the Poles, and we
hailed them with cheerful shouting, and presently the two caravans
joined company, and scoured the plain at the rate of near four miles
per hour. The horse-master, a courier of this company, rode three miles
for our one. He was a broken- nosed Arab, with pistols, a sabre, a
fusee, a yellow Damascus cloth flapping over his head, and his nose
ornamented with diachylon. He rode a hog-necked grey Arab, bristling
over with harness, and jumped, and whirled, and reared, and halted, to
the admiration of all.
Scarce had the diachylonian Arab finished his evolutions, when lo! yet
another cloud of dust was seen, and another party of armed and
glittering horsemen appeared. They, too, were led by an Arab, who was
followed by two janissaries, with silver maces shining in the sun.
’Twas the party of the new American Consul-General of Syria and
Jerusalem, hastening to that city, with the inferior consuls of Ramleh
and Jaffa to escort him. He expects to see the Millennium in three
years, and has accepted the office of consul at Jerusalem, so as to be
on the spot in readiness.
When the diachylon Arab saw the American Arab, he straightway galloped
his steed towards him, took his pipe, which he delivered at his
adversary in guise of a jereed, and galloped round and round, and in
and out, and there and back again, as in a play of war. The American
replied in a similar playful ferocity—the two warriors made a little
tournament for us there on the plains before Jaffa, in the which
diachylon, being a little worsted, challenged his adversary to a race,
and fled away on his grey, the American following on his bay. Here poor
sticking-plaster was again worsted, the Yankee contemptuously riding
round him, and then declining further exercise.
What more could mortal man want? A troop of knights and paladins could
have done no more. In no page of Walter Scott have I read a scene more
fair and sparkling. The sober warriors of our escort did not join in
the gambols of the young men. There they rode soberly, in their white
turbans, by their ladies’ litter, their long guns rising up behind
them.
There was no lack of company along the road: donkeys numberless, camels
by twos and threes; now a mule-driver, trudging along the road,
chanting a most queer melody; now a lady, in white veil, black mask,
and yellow papooshes, bestriding her ass, and followed by her
husband,—met us on the way; and most people gave a salutation.
Presently we saw Ramleh, in a smoking mist, on the plain before us,
flanked to the right by a tall lonely tower, that might have held the
bells of some moutier of Caen or Evreux. As we entered, about three
hours and a half after starting, among the white domes and stone houses
of the little town, we passed the place of tombs. Two women were
sitting on one of them,—the one bending her head towards the stone, and
rocking to and fro, and moaning out a very sweet pitiful lamentation.
The American consul invited us to breakfast at the house of his
subaltern, the hospitable one-eyed Armenian, who represents the United
States at Jaffa. The stars and stripes were flaunting over his
terraces, to which we ascended, leaving our horses to the care of a
multitude of roaring ragged Arabs beneath, who took charge of and fed
the animals, though I can’t say in the least why; but, in the same way
as getting off my horse on entering Jerusalem, I gave the rein into the
hand of the first person near me, and have never heard of the worthy
brute since. At the American consul’s we were served first with rice
soup in pishpash, flavoured with cinnamon and spice; then with boiled
mutton, then with stewed ditto and tomatoes; then with fowls swimming
in grease; then with brown ragouts belaboured with onions; then with a
smoking pilaff of rice: several of which dishes I can pronounce to be
of excellent material and flavour. When the gentry had concluded this
repast, it was handed to a side table, where the commonalty speedily
discussed it. We left them licking their fingers as we hastened away
upon the second part of the ride.
And as we quitted Ramleh, the scenery lost that sweet and peaceful look
which characterises the pretty plain we had traversed; and the sun,
too, rising in the heaven, dissipated all those fresh beautiful tints
in which God’s world is clothed of early morning, and which city people
have so seldom the chance of beholding. The plain over which we rode
looked yellow and gloomy; the cultivation little or none; the land
across the roadside fringed, for the most part, with straggling
wild-carrot plants; a patch of green only here and there. We passed
several herds of lean, small, well- conditioned cattle: many flocks of
black goats, tended now and then by a ragged negro shepherd, his long
gun slung over his back, his hand over his eyes to shade them as he
stared at our little cavalcade. Most of the half-naked countryfolks we
met had this dismal appendage to Eastern rustic life; and the weapon
could hardly be one of mere defence, for, beyond the faded skull-cap,
or tattered coat of blue or dirty white, the brawny, brown-chested,
solemn-looking fellows had nothing seemingly to guard. As before, there
was no lack of travellers on the road: more donkeys trotted by, looking
sleek and strong; camels singly and by pairs, laden with a little
humble ragged merchandise, on their way between the two towns. About
noon we halted eagerly at a short distance from an Arab village and
well, where all were glad of a drink of fresh water. A village of
beavers, or a colony of ants, make habitations not unlike these dismal
huts piled together on the plain here. There were no single huts along
the whole line of road; poor and wretched as they are, the Fellahs
huddle all together for protection from the other thieves their
neighbours. The government (which we restored to them) has no power to
protect them, and is only strong enough to rob them. The women, with
their long blue gowns and ragged veils, came to and fro with pitchers
on their heads. Rebecca had such an one when she brought drink to the
lieutenant of Abraham. The boys came staring round, bawling after us
with their fathers for the inevitable backsheesh. The village dogs
barked round the flocks, as they were driven to water or pasture.
We saw a gloomy, not very lofty-looking ridge of hills in front of us;
the highest of which the guide pointing out to us, told us that from it
we should see Jerusalem. It looked very near, and we all set up a trot
of enthusiasm to get into this hill country.
But that burst of enthusiasm (it may have carried us nearly a quarter
of a mile in three minutes) was soon destined to be checked by the
disagreeable nature of the country we had to traverse. Before we got to
the real mountain district, we were in a manner prepared for it, by the
mounting and descent of several lonely outlying hills, up and down
which our rough stony track wound. Then we entered the hill district,
and our path lay through the clattering bed of an ancient stream, whose
brawling waters have rolled away into the past, along with the fierce
and turbulent race who once inhabited these savage hills. There may
have been cultivation here two thousand years ago. The mountains, or
huge stony mounds environing this rough path, have level ridges all the
way up to their summits; on these parallel ledges there is still some
verdure and soil: when water flowed here, and the country was thronged
with that extraordinary population, which, according to the Sacred
Histories, was crowded into the region, these mountain steps may have
been gardens and vineyards, such as we see now thriving along the hills
of the Rhine. Now the district is quite deserted, and you ride among
what seem to be so many petrified waterfalls. We saw no animals moving
among the stony brakes; scarcely even a dozen little birds in the whole
course of the ride. The sparrows are all at Jerusalem, among the
housetops, where their ceaseless chirping and twittering forms the most
cheerful sound of the place.
The company of Poles, the company of Oxford men, and the little
American army, travelled too quick for our caravan, which was made to
follow the slow progress of the ladies’ litter, and we had to make the
journey through the mountains in a very small number. Not one of our
party had a single weapon more dreadful than an umbrella: and a couple
of Arabs, wickedly inclined, might have brought us all to the halt, and
rifled every carpet-bag and pocket belonging to us. Nor can I say that
we journeyed without certain qualms of fear. When swarthy fellows, with
girdles full of pistols and yataghans, passed us without unslinging
their long guns—when scowling camel-riders, with awful long bending
lances, decorated with tufts of rags, or savage plumes of scarlet
feathers, went by without molestation—I think we were rather glad that
they did not stop and parley: for, after all, a British lion with an
umbrella is no match for an Arab with his infernal long gun. What, too,
would have become of our women? So we tried to think that it was
entirely out of anxiety for them that we were inclined to push on.
There is a shady resting-place and village in the midst of the mountain
district where the travellers are accustomed to halt for an hour’s
repose and refreshment; and the other caravans were just quitting this
spot, having enjoyed its cool shades and waters, when we came up.
Should we stop? Regard for the ladies (of course no other earthly
consideration) made us say, “No!” What admirable self-denial and
chivalrous devotion! So our poor devils of mules and horses got no rest
and no water, our panting litter-men no breathing time, and we
staggered desperately after the procession ahead of us. It wound up the
mountain in front of us: the Poles with their guns and attendants, the
American with his janissaries; fifty or sixty all riding slowly like
the procession in “Bluebeard.”
But alas, they headed us very soon; when we got up the weary hill they
were all out of sight. Perhaps thoughts of Fleet Street did cross the
minds of some of us then, and a vague desire to see a few policemen.
The district now seemed peopled, and with an ugly race. Savage
personages peered at us out of huts, and grim holes in the rocks. The
mules began to loiter most abominably—water the muleteers must
have—and, behold, we came to a pleasant-looking village of trees
standing on a hill; children were shaking figs from the trees—women
were going about—before us was the mosque of a holy man—the village,
looking like a collection of little forts, rose up on the hill to our
right, with a long view of the fields and gardens stretching from it,
and camels arriving with their burdens. Here we must stop; Paolo, the
chief servant, knew the Sheikh of the village—he very good man—give him
water and supper- -water very good here—in fact we began to think of
the propriety of halting here for the night, and making our entry into
Jerusalem on the next day.
A man on a handsome horse dressed in red came prancing up to us,
looking hard at the ladies in the litter, and passed away. Then two
others sauntered up, one handsome, and dressed in red too, and he
stared into the litter without ceremony, began to play with a little
dog that lay there, asked if we were Inglees, and was answered by me in
the affirmative. Paolo had brought the water, the most delicious
draught in the world. The gentlefolks had had some, the poor muleteers
were longing for it. The French maid, the courageous Victoire (never
since the days of Joan of Arc has there surely been a more gallant and
virtuous female of France) refused the drink; when suddenly a servant
of the party scampers up to his master and says: “Abou Gosh says the
ladies must get out and show themselves to the women of the village!”
It was Abou Gosh himself, the redoubted robber Sheikh about whom we had
been laughing and crying “Wolf!” all day. Never was seen such a skurry!
“March!” was the instant order given. When Victoire heard who it was
and the message, you should have seen how she changed countenance;
trembling for her virtue in the ferocious clutches of a Gosh. “Un verre
d’eau pour l’amour de Dieu!” gasped she, and was ready to faint on her
saddle. “Ne buvez plus, Victoire!” screamed a little fellow of our
party. “Push on, push on!” cried one and all. “What’s the matter?”
exclaimed the ladies in the litter, as they saw themselves suddenly
jogging on again. But we took care not to tell them what had been the
designs of the redoubtable Abou Gosh. Away then we went—Victoire was
saved—and her mistresses rescued from dangers they knew not of, until
they were a long way out of the village.
Did he intend insult or good will? Did Victoire escape the odious
chance of becoming Madame Abou Gosh? Or did the mountain chief simply
propose to be hospitable after his fashion? I think the latter was his
desire; if the former had been his wish, a half- dozen of his long guns
could have been up with us in a minute, and had all our party at their
mercy. But now, for the sake of the mere excitement, the incident was,
I am sorry to say, rather a pleasant one than otherwise: especially for
a traveller who is in the happy condition of being able to sing before
robbers, as is the case with the writer of the present.
A little way out of the land of Goshen we came upon a long stretch of
gardens and vineyards, slanting towards the setting sun, which
illuminated numberless golden clusters of the most delicious grapes, of
which we stopped and partook. Such grapes were never before tasted;
water so fresh as that which a countryman fetched for us from a well
never sluiced parched throats before. It was the ride, the sun, and
above all Abou Gosh, who made that refreshment so sweet, and hereby I
offer him my best thanks. Presently, in the midst of a most diabolical
ravine, down which our horses went sliding, we heard the evening gun:
it was fired from Jerusalem. The twilight is brief in this country, and
in a few minutes the landscape was grey round about us, and the sky
lighted up by a hundred thousand stars, which made the night beautiful.
Under this superb canopy we rode for a couple of hours to our journey’s
end. The mountains round about us dark, lonely, and sad; the landscape
as we saw it at night (it is not more cheerful in the daytime), the
most solemn and forlorn I have ever seen. The feelings of almost terror
with which, riding through the night, we approached this awful place,
the centre of the world’s past and future history, have no need to be
noted down here. The recollection of those sensations must remain with
a man as long as his memory lasts; and he should think of them as
often, perhaps, as he should talk of them little.