THE END OF OUR PILGRIMAGE.
On the 4th of April we left Jerusalem for Hebron, travelling in an
ancient vehicle driven by a merry bright-eyed youth, who at intervals
would put his head under the hood of the carriage, and inquire, “Are
you happy, O ladies?” On this journey we dispensed with the services
of our dragoman, Miss B. kindly undertaking for us the distracting
business of payments and bargaining, for the coinage of Palestine is as
perplexing as its language.
You can never be sure of the value of Turkish money in this country.
Every village, though circulating the same coins, puts a different
value on them; this is most embarrassing to the European. I do not
remember meeting either a native or an English resident, who could give
you off-hand the accurate cost of a few trifling purchases. Before
you can get near it, mysterious calculations have to be worked out
on paper; these must be illustrated by pieces of English, French and
Turkish money, accompanied by such profuse explanations that you soon
begin to doubt your own sanity. Lucky indeed is the English traveller
who survives, and goes forth with a serene countenance, believing that
he comprehends the system of accounts as practised in Palestine.
On the road we passed long caravans of Russian and other pilgrims going
up to Jerusalem to keep Easter. They saluted us courteously, but showed
unmistakable surprise at our travelling in an opposite direction to the
Holy City.
Half-way to Hebron we stopped at a khân, and were presented with tiny
cups of coffee. We returned the compliment by offering a backsheesh to
the khân-keeper.
In the remoter parts of Palestine buying and selling is reduced to
a fine art. As a matter of fact you don’t buy anything, you merely
exchange presents. You wish to purchase something and ask the price;
the owner immediately gives you the article, and with a grand air
places his hand on his heart and exclaims—
“Take it, my brother; what is that between thee and me?”
If you are foolish enough to accept his words literally, he will be
grievously disappointed, and by the exercise of much cunning would,
without fail, get his gift back again. No, the correct way is to
utter polite protests against such generosity, to which your would-be
benefactor again fervently remarks—
“Think not of that, O my brother, it is a trifle.”
You go on playing at cup and ball until he deprecatingly yields to
your scruples, and names a price out of all proportion to the value
of the article. At this point the game becomes exciting. If you are
wise, you turn on your heel in disgust, after throwing out contemptuous
hints on the worthlessness of the “present.” This causes the merchant
to reflect; his respect for you is growing; finally he relents and
proposes a more reasonable price. The exchange is then made, and you
part with mutual expressions of good-will.
While we were sipping our coffee, our driver and a friend washed their
hands, carefully removed their shoes from their feet, and turning
towards Mecca they solemnly prayed and recited portions of the Korân,
bowing their heads and performing the prescribed genuflexions. When
this duty was finished, they promptly fell out over some trifle, and
said things to each other in what Miss B. described as highly pictorial
language. Just as we expected them to come to blows, they embraced,
climbed into their places on the box-seat (for the friend turned out to
be a fourth passenger), and we resumed our journey, though not before
our Jehu had thrust his head under the hood of the carriage with the
artless inquiry, “Are you happy, O beautiful ladies?” To which Miss B.
replied—
“Transcendently happy, O son of the Prophet!”
In acknowledgment of this compliment to his powers of pleasing, we were
entertained with an improvised air, to which he sang in praise of our
loveliness and amiability of character. Such is the Arab!
In a couple of hours we were entering Hebron by the narrow valley whose
vine-clad hills have immortalised the Vale of Eshchol. We alighted at
the door of the English Hospital, which is outside the town, and were
warmly welcomed by the ladies, whose guests we were to be for the next
two days.
Under the guidance of Dr. Patterson, the medical missionary, we visited
the famous Mosque, but were only allowed to ascend the five outer
steps. This even excited the anger of the wild boys and girls, who
spat at us and cursed us as Pagan Franks. From one of the prayer holes
in the marvellous outer wall which surrounds the cave of Machpelah we
took out a paper, which had been placed there that morning by a Jewish
mother. On it was written in a curious Judeo-Arabic dialect a prayer
“to our Father Abraham that he would look upon her affliction and
intercede with the Lord of Hosts that He would give her sons instead of
daughters.” This desire for male children is common throughout Syria.
As soon as the first son is born, the father drops his own name and
is henceforward known as Abou Yusef—the father of Joseph—as the case
may be, while the mother gains the respect and love of her husband in
proportion to the number of sons she bears him. Daughters, as a rule,
are of no account.
We looked with reverence and awe upon the ancestral burial-place of the
Patriarchs. True, we could only gaze at the polished outer wall, but we
knew that therein “was the one spot of earth which Abraham could call
his own.” The pledge which he left of the perpetuity of his interest in
“the land wherein he was a stranger” was the sepulchre which he bought
with four hundred shekels of silver from Ephron the Hittite. Round this
venerable cave the reverence of successive ages and religions has now
raised a series of edifices which, whilst they preserve its identity,
conceal it entirely from view. But there it still remains. Within the
Mussulman mosque, within the Christian church, within the massive
stone enclosure built by the kings of Judah, is, beyond any reasonable
question, the last resting-place of Abraham and Sarah, of Isaac and
Rebecca, “and there Jacob buried Leah,” and thither, with all the pomp
of funeral state, his own embalmed body was brought from the palaces of
Egypt.[3]
Hebron is a Moslem city containing about 18,000 inhabitants. About
600 Jews dwell in the lower end of the town. Fierce and wild, it is
their boast that no Pagan Frank has built his house within their walls
nor desecrated their holy shrine with his presence. Whether this
bigotry will give place to tolerance under the softening influences
exercised by the medical missionaries has yet to be proved. We were
told that the people were becoming gradually gentler. To us they seemed
fanatical and dangerous. There is no hotel in Hebron for travellers.
Thanks to our good friends the missionaries we were able to visit most
of the places of interest round about. The neighbourhood abounds in
traditions. To the north, a cave is pointed out as having been the
abode of Adam and Eve for more than a hundred years. Farther south is
the spot where Cain killed Abel, and there in the “Vale of Tears” Adam
mourned for his murdered son, and close by the Father of all living was
buried.
The history of Hebron, or El-Kalleel (the Friend of God), is
particularly interesting. It is one of the oldest cities in the
world, having been built seven years before Zoan or Memphis in Egypt
(Num. xiii. 22). “Abram removed his tent, and came and dwelt in the
plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there an altar to the
Lord” (Gen. xiii. 18). Later on Joshua smote it with the edge of the
sword and destroyed it utterly; afterwards he gave it to Caleb for an
inheritance, “because that he wholly followed the Lord God of Israel.”
David reigned here seven years and a half. The murderers of Ishbosheth
were hanged by the pool, which is still in existence. Rebellious
Absalom made the city his headquarters. Centuries later it was taken
from the Edomites by Judas Maccabees, but since 1187 it has been in the
hands of the Moslems. To-day it is a picturesque stone town, the centre
of commerce for the southern Arabs, who bring their wool and camels’
hair to the market. They also trade extensively in glass beads and
leathern water-buckets.
We were sorry when our two days had expired, but alas! we had to say
good-bye to our hospitable English friends, for time pressed; so
waving a last farewell to the groups of deaconesses and servants, who
had gathered at the door of the mission house, we turned our faces
again towards Jerusalem. A couple of days in David’s city followed and
then to Jericho, where we bathed in the mysterious Dead Sea, and in
consequence were covered with salt crystals. Starting before sunrise,
we were back again in Jerusalem at 9 A.M., and late in the same
afternoon our little cavalcade, comprising Ameen, Bon Jour, Elizabeth
and myself, rode out of the city on our way north.
For the next six days we lived almost entirely in the saddle from
sunrise to sunset, sleeping at native hotels or convents, which had
been previously arranged for by our faithful dragoman, whose careful
attention to our needs cannot be too highly spoken of. Although the
sun was hot, the roads rough, and even a shady nook could not always
be found for our midday meal, we thoroughly enjoyed these long days
in the drowsy air. Every hill and valley, plain and pool we passed on
our route had been the scene of some more or less remarkable event
recorded in the Scriptures, and as Ameen was well posted up in Bible
history, and eager to impart his knowledge, we missed no place of
interest. Travelling thus day by day, seldom meeting any human being,
except an occasional shepherd or country woman, we had ample time
for reflection, and it was easy enough to give the reins to one’s
imagination, and ride with Joshua’s army through these silent vales, or
watch the impetuous rush of the warriors up those bleak rocky hills, as
with all the confidence of victory they stormed the cities which once
stood there. Again from out of the past we could hear the blessings
and curses thundered forth, and see the huge mass of people gathered
together, as we galloped through the narrow valley with the towering
sentinels, Gerizim and Ebal on either side. Or as we sat on Jacob’s
well we could listen to the sweet voice of the Saviour talking to the
poor woman of Samaria.
On we went through Nablous until we reached Mount Tabor, where on
the top, in the Latin convent, we rested a couple of days. Thence to
Tiberias, where we dismissed our faithful escort. Here we stayed with
our friends Dr. and Mrs. Torrance, of the Free Church of Scotland
Mission. Their house and hospital are built on the shores of the Lake
of Galilee, and amid its charming scenery we passed a fortnight. One
of our excursions took us to Gadara. Our tents were pitched on a green
knoll in the midst of wild beetling crags, volcanic mountains, and
tropical vegetation. We bathed by moonlight in one of the great natural
sulphur springs hidden by immense hedges of oleanders. Striking our
tents at five in the morning, we rode hard till twelve o’clock, when
we reached one of the ancient giant cities. Here Dr. Torrance held
an open-air medical mission. The poor people soon crowded round the
_Hakeem_ and were patiently examined, and medicines dispensed to those
who needed them. It was a picturesque and pathetic scene, the kindly
face of the white doctor, with the almost black natives, and hideously
tatooed women and girls waiting anxiously for his verdict, firmly
believing that his touch and medicines had miraculous power. As we rode
through the city we were deeply impressed by its mighty ruins, which
testified to the strength and culture of its founders. From Tiberias we
went to Nazareth, staying a few days at the Protestant Orphanage; and
then engaging two muleteers we set forth again, crossed Carmel, stayed
the night in the comfortable German hotel built at its foot, then
along the coast to Beyrout, stopping at Acre, Tyre, and Sidon—a five
days’ journey. This route I should not recommend to those who dislike
solitude and Eastern travel without the slightest Western comfort. Dr.
and Mrs. Eddy, of the American Presbyterian Mission, received us very
kindly at Sidon, as there turned out to be no hotel, though this town
was by far the most flourishing we had seen. A large industrial school
for boys, worked by the missionaries, was well attended, all kinds of
trades were taught, the pupils eagerly and intelligently learning, and
eventually going out well equipped to fight the battle of life.
We rested a few days at Beyrout (the Paris of Syria) under the shadow
of the purple Lebanons. Here we dismissed our muleteers, for we were
now in the region of railways and civilisation. Very early on a Monday
morning we got into the train which was to take us to Damascus. The
journey lasted ten hours, but it seemed like two, for the railroad is
cut through the Lebanons, and the most exquisite scenery meets the
eye the whole way. Towards four o’clock the train rushed screaming
through the valley of the Barada (the Abana of Scripture), past smiling
gardens, and drew up in the station of Damascus. It was a glowing
afternoon, but the lovely green of the trees and the plash, plash,
of the rapid rivers softened the glare of the domes and roofs of the
houses, and gave relief from the dusty roads. In the evening we went
up to the top of a hill overlooking “the mother of cities,” and sat
down to enjoy the scene. How dreamlike it looked in the soft sunset!
The brown bare mountains on one side, the pathless desert all round.
Damascus, like an exquisite pearl set in a crown of emeralds, nestled
surrounded by miles of waving green trees. No wonder that to the
sun-baked Bedouin of the desert it is a paradise, or that Mahomet in
first beholding it, turned back, saying, “I am not fit to enter.”
The bazaars of Damascus are famous in the East. Each set of merchants
has its own quarters, so that there is no difficulty in finding the
wares you require. There are long straight arcades, and winding,
twisting arcades, all aglow with light and colour.
But there is no time to linger or describe the beauties of this truly
beautiful city. We spent a week amid its wonders and fell more in love
with it day by day. I might mention that the hotels are fairly good,
and English travellers are well cared for.
And now our journeyings are nearly over. A week at Baalbec, where the
famous ruins of the temples of Jupiter and the Sun are the astonishment
of all beholders; thence to Beyrout, from which port we embarked for
Constantinople, another delightful five days’ journey, and we steamed
into the Bosphorus.
A week crammed with more wonders in the way of sight-seeing, and then
late on Monday afternoon we stepped into the Oriental Express and were
whirled homewards, and on Thursday afternoon we were in dear smoky
London once more, after an absence of nearly four months.
It may interest my readers to know that our joint expenses for this
trip were £170, including £39 for railway tickets from Constantinople
to London. This sum took in every item of expenditure except the
presents which we bought for our home friends. Of course we could
not possibly have seen so much, nor travelled so comfortably and
economically if it had not been for the kindness and hospitality of our
many missionary friends, who had looked forward to our visit, and who
made everything easy and delightful for us. If any of the girl readers
of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER set out on such a tour, I hope they will return
with as many pleasant recollections as we did. And now farewell.
S. E. BELL.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Stanley, _Lectures on the Jewish Church_.
VARIETIES.
LASTING A LIFETIME.
_Mrs. Crabshaw:_ “What do you mean by cheating me like this? You said
this chain I bought here would last a lifetime, and here is all the
plating worn off in a month.”
_Goldskin:_ “Madam, I said dot shain vould last you a lifetime pecause
when you puy it you look so sick I didn’t t’ink you vould live der veek
oudt.”
LIFE IS SHORT.
As shadows cast by cloud and sun
Flit o’er the summer grass,
So in Thy sight, Almighty One,
Earth’s generations pass;
And as the years, an endless host,
Come swiftly pressing on,
The brightest names that earth can boast
Just glisten and are gone.—_Bryant._
ABSURD NAMES.
Amongst absurd names which have been recorded at Somerset House within
recent years, we have the following, of which few people would like to
be the bearers:—
“That’s it, who’d have thought it?” “Is it Maria?” “Bovril,” “Sardine,”
“Ananias,” “Judas Iscariot,” and “Man Friday.”
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.