A Price for Politeness. ―― Escort. ―― Picturesque Scenery. ――
Samaria. ―― Its Founder. ―― Its Vicissitudes. ―― Residence
of Elisha. ―― Famine. ―― City beautified by Herod. ―― Its
Location. ―― Hill of Omri. ―― Grand Ruins. ―― Tomb of John
the Baptist. ―― Temple of Augustus. ―― Prediction fulfilled.
―― Departure for Cæsarea. ―― Night on the Plain of Sharon. ――
The Sick brought out. ―― Plain of Sharon. ―― The Lost Lake. ――
Cæsarea uninhabited. ―― Dangers. ―― History. ―― Imperial City
under Herod the Great. ―― Grand Ruins. ―― St. Paul a Prisoner.
―― Death of Herod Agrippa. ―― Athlît. ―― Mount Carmel. ――
Scene of the Sacrifice. ―― Great Event. ―― Abode of Elisha.
SAMARIA, the ancient capital of Israel, is seven and a half miles to
the northwest from Nablous, and 25 miles beyond, in the same direction,
is Cæsarea, on the Mediterranean coast. Intending to encamp that night
amid the ruins of the latter city, we ordered our horses at nine A.M.
At the appointed time their solid iron shoes were heard on the pavement
below, and the impatient Arab servant was crying, “Horses ready, sir.”
But we had met with an unexpected delay. Judging from the magnanimous
manner in which the schoolmaster of Nablous had received us at our
arrival, and his affable deportment during our stay, he seemed above
the tricks and meanness of other Orientals; but an Arab is an Arab
the world over――selfish, money-loving, and untrue, whether Christian,
Jew, or Moslem. Eastern hospitality always means an equivalent to be
returned for whatever has been received. Gifts are presented with the
tacit understanding that presents are to be given in return. Even the
merchant assures the buyer that all he has is his, well knowing that in
this unbounded generosity he is protected by the customs of the East,
which are invested with all the sanctity and authority of law. More
than once our host had said, “All I have is yours――my house, my food,
my service.” To the uninitiated this is equal to his ideal of Oriental
hospitality; but when the day of departure comes, the deceptive curtain
is lifted, and his Arab host stands before him a persistent creditor.
Having paid our host for his apartments and for the entertainment he
had furnished, I saw that he wore an expression of disappointment.
“What is the matter, my friend? Why is thy countenance sad, seeing thou
art not sick? It is nothing else but sorrow of heart.” “Ah! my dear sir,
you have paid me for my room, for my food, and for my service, but you
have not paid me for my politeness.” “How much do you charge for your
politeness?” A thoughtful moment followed, and he replied, “Two dollars
and a half.”[496]
Waving him an adieu, we sprang into our saddles, and in a few moments
issued out of the western portal of the city. Intending to visit
Cæsarea, which is now a desolation and a den of thieves, we had taken
the precaution to engage two Turkish soldiers as a guard, for whose
service the governor had demanded an exorbitant sum. They were to
have met us at the gate of the town, but, true to their traditional
indolence, they did not arrive till long after the appointed hour.
The sun was high, a long journey was before us, many places of deep
interest were to be visited, and we felt impatient at the delay. To
wait was the only remedy. At length one came, informing us that his
companion had lost his horse. Refusing to linger longer, we ordered
him to advance, leaving word with the guard at the gate to hasten the
tardy soldier, who overtook us after half an hour’s ride.
Our cavalcade now presented a picturesque appearance as we wound
round the southwestern spur of Gerizim and descended into the upper
end of the Vale of Shechem. Leading the way, our guard were mounted on
spirited horses fantastically caparisoned, while they themselves were
attired in costumes of the gayest colors. Each was armed with a long
gun thrown across the shoulders, a Turkish sword dangling by his side,
and a brace of old-fashioned cavalry pistols sticking in his girdle. As
we advanced the scenery became surpassingly lovely. Terraced hills rose
on either side, casting a grateful shade in the vale below; groves of
figs and olives, apples and pomegranates, apricots and almonds, covered
the plain and mountain sides. As we rode on, our ears were saluted with
the sound of running waters and the song of birds. In less than thirty
minutes we passed on our right a noble fountain, covered with a Roman
arch, around which were groups of peasants and droves of asses. An hour
beyond we came to an arched mill-race, not unlike a Roman aqueduct,
consisting of twelve pointed arches, gray with age and festooned with
graceful ferns. It is used for carrying the water to the south side
of the valley, where it falls headlong into the heart of an old mill,
amid the whirr of wheels, mingling an air of civilization with the
crude mechanics of the East. Leaving this terrestrial elysium, our
path diverged northward over bleak hills whose limestone ribs had
burst through the scanty soil, intensely reflecting the light and heat
of a Syrian sun. The path is cut into the solid rock, in some places
resembling steps, but now worn smooth by the tread of man and beast.
Near the summit of the ridge is the “Shepherds’ Spring,” where maidens
were drawing water for their flocks. Now the royal city of Samaria
rose to view. Its unique hill, like a truncated cone, adorned with
circular terraces; its marble porticoes, now in ruins; and its hut-like
dwellings, rising from amid the remains of more pretentious edifices,
formed a picture of singular beauty. Descending through magnificent
groves, the path followed the valley, and, after passing beneath an
old arched gateway, it abruptly turned to the west up the hill of the
Samaria of Omri, the Sebaste of Herod, and the Sebustieh of modern
times.
The history of Samaria is among the most thrilling and romantic
portions of the Sacred Volume. It dates back to 900 years B.C. “In the
thirty and first year of Asa, king of Judah, began Omri to reign over
Israel, twelve years; six years reigned he in Tirzah. And he bought the
Hill of Samaria of Shemer for two talents of silver, and built on the
hill, and called the name of the city which he built after the name of
Shemer, owner of the Hill Samaria.”[497] Up to this time the revolted
ten tribes had no capital city as the object of their pride and the
centre of their affections. Originating in rebellion, the kingdom
of Israel had been governed by adventurers, who had reared sumptuous
palaces as fancy or luxury inclined. From Shechem, the original seat
of empire, Jeroboam removed to the enchanting Heights of Tirzah, a
magnificent mountain six miles north from Nablous, projecting from the
table-land of Ebal. Solomon had praised its beauty in his immortal song:
“Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah;”[498] and for forty years it
was the seat of royalty. Ambitious for an imperial city near Jerusalem,
Baasha, the successor of Jeroboam, abandoned Tirzah for Ramah; but,
overtaken by misfortune, he was compelled to return to the mountains of
Ephraim. More successful, however, than his predecessor, after a reign
of six years Omri finally exchanged Tirzah for the strength, wealth,
and glory of Samaria. Succeeding his father Omri to the throne of
Israel, and marrying the Sidonian Jezebel, Ahab removed his court to
Jezreel, on the slopes of Gilboa. To him belongs the shame of having
first erected an idol temple to Baal on the summit of Samaria, which
secured for him the divine verdict that “Ahab did more to provoke
the Lord God of Israel to anger than all the kings of Israel that
were before him.”[499] The city was a tempting prize to the military
plunderers of that distant day. In the reign of Ahab, Benhadad, king of
Damascus, besieged it with a strong and boastful army, but, through the
courage and celerity of the young men of the provinces, he was repulsed
with terrible slaughter.[500] Long the residence of the Prophet Elisha,
Samaria was the scene of many of the most interesting events in his
marvelous career. Benhadad, regarding him the cause of the discomfiture
of his army, dispatched a detachment of troops to Dothan, six miles to
the north, to capture the man of God. Conscious of his danger, Elisha
invoked the divine aid, and the Lord smote the men with blindness, and
the prophet, whom they had been sent to capture, led them as captives
back to Samaria. Forgetting that mercy is due to the vanquished, the
king of Israel, in a paroxysm of revenge, cried out, “My father, shall
I smite them? shall I smite them?” More humane than his royal master,
the kind-hearted Elisha replied, “Thou shalt not smite them: wouldst
thou smite them whom thou hast taken captive with thy sword and with
thy bow? Set bread and water before them, that they may eat and drink,
and go to their master.”[501] Benhadad, enraged at his failure to
capture the man whom he supposed was the cause of his ill success,
sought to accomplish by famine what he had failed to do by the sword.
Investing the city on every side, he reduced the citizens to the
greatest necessity. It was during the horrors of the long and fearful
famine which followed that, as the King of Israel passed along the wall,
“there cried a woman unto him, saying, Help, my lord, O king. And he
said unto her, What aileth thee? And she answered, This woman said unto
me, Give thy son, that we may eat him to-day, and we will eat my son
to-morrow. So we boiled my son and did eat him; and I said unto her on
the next day, Give thy son that we may eat him; and she hath hid her
son.” Rending his clothes at a spectacle so mournful, and erroneously
attributing the famine to Elisha, the king swore, “God do so, and more
also to me, if the head of Elisha, the son of Shaphat, shall stand
on him this day.” Conscious of his innocence and undaunted at the
threat, the prophet sat calmly in his house; and, contrary to all human
probability, but knowing what would befall the enemy that night, he
said to the executioner, “To-morrow about this time shall a measure
of fine flour be sold for a shekel, and two measures of barley for a
shekel, in the gate of Samaria.” Terrified by a supernatural noise,
that night the Syrians abandoned their well-provisioned camp and fled
for safety. Four lepers, who had lingered outside of the city, dying
of hunger, in the desperation of despair resolved to enter the enemy’s
camp and ask for bread; but, to their surprise, the camp was empty
of men, but full of the spoils of war. Lepers though they were, they
hastened back to the city with the glad tidings of plenty, and that day
were fulfilled the prophetic words of Elisha.[502]
Illustration: SAMARIA.
No important event occurred in connection with Samaria for 700 years,
till the reign of the Emperor Augustus, who bestowed it as a gift
upon Herod the Great, by whom it was enlarged and beautified, rivaling
Baalbec and Palmyra in the magnificence of its architecture. Herod
reared a temple on the summit of the hill in honor of his patron, and
inclosed its base with a colonnade, consisting of two ranges of columns
50 feet apart, and extending 3000 feet in length. Such was the splendor
of Samaria in the apostolic age, when Philip, together with Peter and
John, preached the kingdom of heaven to the Samaritans, and encountered
Simon Magus, the sorcerer of Sebaste.[503]
The ancient city was located on one of the most imposing and
picturesque hills in Palestine. Situated in a basin-like plain six
miles in diameter, it rises in an oval shape to the height of 300 feet.
Connected with the mountains on the east by a gentle swell of land, it
has the appearance of a noble promontory. Midway its sides is a broad,
irregular terrace, the site of the modern town, while its summit is
a long, level plateau. On the north and south are valleys, converging
on the west into the Valley of Nablous and running to the sea, bounded
on either side by higher mountains, dotted with villages, and fertile
in groves of fruit-trees and fields of grain. Nothing evinces the
refinement and elegance of Omri’s taste more than the selection of this
hill to be the site of his imperial city; but, under the degenerating
influences of Mohammedanism, the beautiful in nature and the grand
in art sink into insignificance. The footfalls of the Prophet are
the pitfalls of civilization. Here, as every where else in the East
where he sways his sceptre and lifts his sword, shame succeeds glory.
Filth and rags, indolence and turbulence, crime and misery, are
the chief features of the 400 inhabitants of the modern town. Their
sixty wretched huts are constructed of mud, in which are imbedded
the polished but now broken columns of costlier edifices. In a region
where plenty waits on ordinary industry, they are but little above the
condition of common beggars. In such a land indolence is a crime and
poverty a dishonor.
Grand amid its ruins and conspicuous in its desolation is the Church
of John the Baptist, reared to the memory of that great man some time
during the reign of the Crusaders. Standing on the very brow of the
broad terrace on the east, its broken arches and crumbling walls recall
the beautiful ruins of Melrose and Dryburg Abbeys. In form it resembles
a Greek cross. The finish of the interior is of the Corinthian order,
and exceedingly beautiful. Measuring 153 feet in length and 75 in width,
the interior consists of a nave and two grand aisles, formed by rows of
clustered columns ornamented with Corinthian capitals. In the eastern
end is the chancel, with pointed arches elegantly adorned, resembling
the segment of a circle. But the Gothic roof is gone, and in the aisles
grass grows where once cowled monks and mail-clad knights knelt in
prayer. On white marble tablets set in the wall are sculptured crosses
of the Order of the Knights of St. John, now mutilated by the hand of
Moslem ignorance.
The southern half of the interior has been inclosed for a mosque, and
under a wely in this inclosure is the reputed tomb of St. John, called
by the Arabs “Neby Yahya.” It is a small chamber excavated in the solid
rock, reached by the descent of 21 steps. Here pious tradition points
to the final resting-place of his headless body, brought hither by his
friends from the castle of Machaerus, on the east of the Jordan, where
it was originally interred. When the brave Crusaders took possession of
the Holy Land, they guarded with affection and veneration the sepulchre
of their patron saint, and reared over his ashes this church as his
funeral pile. Though impossible to determine the correctness of the
tradition that here urns the dust of the greatest of prophets, it is no
less a tribute to his memory, and a dishonor to the memory of his royal
murderer, that the name of John and that of Herod are the only two
conspicuous names perpetuated by the ruins of Samaria.
Plucking a memorial leaf from the tomb, we followed the broad, level
belt of land to the southwest side of the hill, where are the remains
of Herod’s colonnade. It is impossible to speak with accuracy of
its vastness and magnificence. According to Josephus, Herod enlarged
the city, surrounded it with a wall 20 furlongs in circumference,
in the midst of which he left an open area a furlong and a half in
circumference, where he erected a temple to Augustus, remarkable alike
for the vastness of its dimensions and the exquisite beauty of its
finish.[504] To rival the renowned city of Palmyra, he constructed
a colonnade 50 feet wide and 3000 long, consisting of two rows of
polished limestone columns 16 feet high and two feet in diameter,
ornamented with Corinthian capitals. Through this imposing colonnade
the royalty, the beauty, and military of Sebaste passed up to the
temple of Augustus, which crowned the hill of Omri; but, like the grim
skeleton of departed beauty, it is now a ruin. For more than 200 feet
this avenue is marked by prostrate columns and broken bases. A hundred
shafts still stand erect as when reared eighteen centuries ago, but now
marred by the rude plowshare of the equally rude Arab. Ascending to the
site of the temple, 200 feet above the colonnade, we found 17 columns
without capitals, two of which were lying prostrate, overgrown with the
ripening grain. Half a mile distant to the right were 15 columns, which
are all that remain of that famous quadrangle composed of 170 columns.
Where marble walks once ran and exquisite statuary stood, venerable
Nature, outliving the monuments of human greatness, has resumed
her ancient sway, bearing on her fertile bosom clustering vines and
ripening grains. From the summit the prospect is no less extensive than
captivating. Unrivaled by any other hill as a site for a capital, the
position of Samaria is strong and central, its environs are fertile,
and its summit is fanned with breezes from the distant sea. The
vineyards, the cotton-fields, the circlet of mountains green with corn,
and the rich Plain of Sharon beyond, bounded by the blue waters of
the Mediterranean, form a picture of more than ordinary beauty, and
one which Elisha and Herod, Philip, and Peter, and John must have
contemplated with delight.
As we descended from the ruins of Sebaste, whose citizens were
great in crime as they were great in wealth and power, the prophetic
denunciations against the city and their fulfillment were recalled to
mind: “I will make Samaria as an heap of the field and as plantings of
a vineyard; and I will pour down the stones thereof into the valley,
and I will discover the foundations thereof.”[505] “Samaria shall
become desolate, for she hath rebelled against her God.”[506]
It was two P.M. when we mounted our horses for Cæsarea. Reapers were
thrusting the sickle into the ripe barley, and maidens were gleaning
after them, as we rode over the Plain of Sebaste. Soon we turned
westward and again entered the Valley of Nablous, here known as Wady
Sh’aîr, “The Valley of Barley.” Through its centre flows a brook, which
increases in width and rapidity as it approaches the sea. Following the
northern bank of the stream, we passed, at intervals of several hundred
yards, Roman aqueducts, near which are mills driven by water power.
Reaching the small hamlet of ’Anebta, the road to Cæsarea branches,
one continuing down the valley to the Plain of Sharon, while the
other, striking across the barren ridges of Wady Mussîn, enters the
plain by the village of Bâkah. Choosing the latter, we traversed a
barren and cheerless region. Night came on apace as we neared the large
and flourishing town of Shuweikeh, situated on a lofty hill. Passing
the village of Kakôn, we mistook Zeita for the town of Bâkah. Riding
through its silent streets, we learned from a peasant that the place of
our night’s encampment was still to the westward. Regaining the road,
we lingered for a moment to examine the remarkable Hill of Zît, marking
the eastern border of the Plain of Sharon. Its sides are scarped and
regular, and its summit is level; around its base are hewn stones and
fragments of columns belonging to some unknown city. It was here we had
a despicable instance of the military tyranny of the Turks. One of our
soldiers rode into a field and cut down grain enough to feed his horse
that night, while the owner, who was a poor man, besought him, in the
most respectful manner, to spare his grain, as it was all his property.
But neither age, prayers, nor poverty touched the heart of that
military ruffian.
Anxious, hungry, and weary, we pitched our tents, at eight P.M., in
the environs of Bâkah, a small straggling town on one of the richest
plains in the world. The mules unloaded, the horses tethered, supper
over, prayers offered, my companions asleep, I walked out upon the
magnificent Plain of Sharon. A dreamy haze, like gossamer gauze, veiled
the skies of night, through which moon and stars softly peered. A scene
so lovely recalled the tender strain of one of our finest poets:
“Oh! sweet and beautiful night,
When the silver moon is high,
And countless stars, like clustering gems,
Hang sparkling in the sky:
While the breath of the summer breeze
Comes whispering down the glen,
And one fond voice alone is heard――
Oh, night is lovely then.”
The horse and his rider lay side by side, and the watch-fires, burning
dimly, shed a livid glare upon the sleepers. The moon, growing brighter
as she ascended, silvered each spear of grass and blade of corn, while
far away to the east, amid the mountain glens of Samaria,
“Shadows wandered free,
But spoke not o’er the idle ground.”
It was now midnight, and I was alone, a stranger in a strange land,
without one near me whose face I had seen beyond the ocean. The heavens
only were familiar; the moon and stars of my childhood were as old
companions; but, rising above the one and the other, I sought communion
with Him who is enthroned on high.
The morning dawned inauspiciously; the gossamer veil of the previous
night had been folded into thick clouds, which obscured the summits
of the distant hills. While we were waiting for our muleteer to load
his beast, there occurred a scene illustrating the tenacity of Eastern
customs. In our party was Dr. Barclay, the eminent American physician
of Joppa. His fame had preceded him, and, learning of his arrival,
the villagers brought out their sick of all ages, and for a time our
encampment became a hospital. Among the number was a young girl, who
with faltering step came leaning upon the arm of her mother. She was
pale and emaciated, and apparently in the last stages of consumption.
The doctor examined her symptoms, questioned her mother, and prescribed
for the patient, who long since, I fear, has passed to another world.
Such was a faint illustration of the days of the Savior, when “they
brought unto him those having all manner of diseases, and he cured
them.” In a country where science is neglected, _materia medica_ is
unknown, the barber is the physician, bloodletting is the panacea
for all diseases, and the “medicine-man” of more enlightened lands is
revered next to God.
The sick had scarcely found shelter within their hovels when the storm
broke upon us in all its fury. Protected by a thick burnous and a
Mackintosh coat, we waited patiently the return of fair weather. The
rain ceasing, we advanced, but had not reached the southern limits of
the town when the storm was renewed with tenfold violence. Deeming it
prudent to halt, we remained upon the plain for an hour, amid a
drenching rain and exposed to a raging wind; but when the rain ceased a
rainbow spanned the heavens such as seldom appears in Western skies.
Hoping to reach Cæsarea by noon, we dashed over the plain, and in less
than two hours came to the Nahr Abu Zabûra, which was so swollen as to
render fording dangerous. Exploring the banks for a ford, but failing
to find one, we plunged in with a shout, and with difficulty gained
the opposite bank. Safely “beyond the floods,” the Plain of Sharon lay
before us in all its wealth and beauty. It extends like a vast prairie
from the base of Carmel on the north to the sea-girt cliffs of Joppa
on the south. Eastward the Hills of Samaria look down upon it, with
Ebal and Gerizim rising above their fellows. Westward is the sea, whose
waters roll their ceaseless waves against its “empire shores.” It has
a shore line of 50 miles in length, and varies from one to 15 miles
in breadth. Undulating in long and graceful swells, it is at intervals
dotted with low hills crowned with the ruins of unknown towns.
Retaining its ancient character, it is the best pasture-land west of
the Jordan valley. Three thousand years ago here Shitrai the Sharonite
kept the flocks of David,[507] and over its ample fields the shepherd
of to-day might wander with his herds. Of the “rose of Sharon” neither
peasants nor scholars have any knowledge at present; if it exists, it
is not recognized by its inspired name. There grows upon the plain the
“imperial thorn,” by some regarded as the thorn of which the Savior’s
crown was made. Growing to the height of four feet, it has a gorgeous
purple blossom, with a long, lancet-like brier, and would well compose
a mock imperial crown.
There are no paths over this great plain, which is seldom trodden
except by those who till the soil, and the compass or a peasant is
the traveler’s only guide. Though ordinarily this is a disadvantage,
yet to us it proved advantageous, as in our wanderings we discovered a
lake that had been lost since the days of the Crusaders. Though it is
not large, its waters are pure, of a bluish tint, and abound in fish.
Flocks of wild ducks were floating on its placid bosom. Its waters
never fail, though they are sensibly increased by the rains in the wet
seasons. Its shores are clean and sandy. On the north it is bounded
by a high sand-bank of many miles in extent. The sand is of an orange
color, like that found on the Debbet er-Ramleh in Arabia. On the south
and west there is a meadow rich in rank weeds, and covered with acres
of white and yellow daisies. On the north and east there is an oaken
grove, lovely as an English park.
Crossing the large sand-hill, we soon entered a tract of country
remarkable only for the quantity of thorns and brambles, which scratch
both man and beast in the most painful manner. An hour’s ride from
the lake brought us to the outer walls of Cæsarea, and at one P.M.
we encamped within its massive ruins. Fearing an attack, our soldiers
immediately left us to return to Nablous, assigning as the cause the
worst of military reasons――that they were afraid to remain. An Arab
soldier is rarely to be trusted in danger. His convictions of right
and wrong, his sense of obligation, his want of personal courage, his
habitual meanness of soul, and his traditional hatred of the Christian,
disqualify him to be a trusty guard. He is of advantage to the traveler
in saving him from the petty annoyances of the common people, by whom
he is dreaded because he is tyrannical and brutal, but it is his nature
to cower in the presence of a superior and courageous foe. There is
nothing so mean as an Arab soldier.
It was a dangerous experiment to visit Cæsarea, and especially to
remain there during the night without a guard. For many years there
has been a standing feud between the Fellahîn who dwell in the villages
on the plain and the Hawâra Arabs who hover along the coast. It was a
novel sight, as we crossed the fields, to see farmers engaged in the
peaceful pursuits of husbandry armed to the teeth. Men were threshing
with guns slung upon their backs; women were gleaning with heavy clubs
dangling at their side; and patrol-men, with sword and pistols, gun
and lance, were on the alert to give the alarm at the first appearance
of the foe. With brief intervals, such has been the condition of
Sharon since the earliest ages, and Isaiah gives it as a sign of
the restoration of the Jews, that “Sharon shall be a fold of flocks,
and the Valley of Achor a place for the herds to lie down in, for my
people that have sought me.”[508] Discouraged by such dangers, but
few travelers attempt this interesting tour; but there is so much of
religious and political importance connected with this renowned city,
that we felt justified in making the journey and remaining during the
night, after we had been abandoned by our military escort.
The authentic history of Cæsarea commences with Strabo, in the reign
of Augustus, who describes it as an insignificant landing-place, marked
by “Strato’s Tower.” From this solitary tower Cæsarea became the most
magnificent city in Palestine, under the auspices of Herod the Great.
The subject and friend of Augustus, he sought to perpetuate the favor
of his royal master by founding an imperial city and giving to it the
family name of Cæsar; and, impelled by an unbounded ambition, he aimed,
if possible, to make it rival Rome in the elegance of its architecture
and in the extent of its commerce. Abandoning the traditions of his
fathers, he transferred the capital of his empire from its mountain
fastnesses to this inhospitable coast, which exposed it alike to the
corruption of Western nations and to the attack of their naval galleys.
But in removing the sceptre of empire from Judah he unconsciously
became the accomplisher of prophecy, and in inviting the civilization
of the West to his shores he unintentionally opened a highway for
the nations to hear from apostolic lips the sublime lessons of
Christianity. Sparing neither art nor treasure in founding his new
city, he surrounded it with a wall of many miles in circumference, and
within the inclosure erected on a commanding hill, which he encompassed
by a second wall, a splendid temple of white marble, and dedicated it
to Cæsar. According to Josephus, he adorned it with two statues, one
representing Rome, and the other his patron Augustus. To attract the
commerce of the West, he constructed in front of the acropolis a harbor
equaling the Athenian Piræus both in elegance and extent. Sinking
huge stones to the depth of 20 fathoms, he constructed an immense and
gently-curving breakwater to protect vessels in port from the southern
and western gales, but left an open channel on the north for the
entrance and departure of ships. To strengthen and beautify the mole,
he reared large towers, containing vaulted chambers adorned with arched
ceilings, mosaic pavements, polished columns, and sculptured capitals,
for the accommodation of naval officers, and connected the towers
and the shore by a long quay, designed for the landing of merchandise
and the pleasures of a promenade. To tempt the wealth and fashion
of Greece and Rome, he erected on the east and south a vast theatre
and circus; and to secure the health and comfort of the citizens, he
built aqueducts extending miles in length, and large enough to admit
a mounted cavalier.[509] But the history of Cæsarea was as brief as it
was splendid; its decline was as rapid as its rise was sudden. Forsaken
by men, it is now an uninhabited desolation. An unbroken silence reigns
within its palaces, the wild Arab refuses to pitch his tent within the
crumbling walls, and the shepherd declines to lead his flock amid its
wild flowers and rich grasses. Rank weeds grow where royal feet trod,
the shy fox barks and the hungry jackal wails where kings reigned,
and sobbing winds sigh responsive to moaning waves where the voice of
revelry was heard. As the ancient population of the city, consisting of
200,000 souls, could not have resided within the walls of the acropolis,
our first attempt was to ascertain the location and direction of the
outer wall. Riding to the east of the town, we could trace a regular
mound sweeping from shore to shore in the form of a semi-circle, now
covered with rubbish, and overgrown with high weeds. Returning, we
ascended the second or inner wall, which is well preserved, and is
exceedingly strong. On the south, east, and north it is surrounded by
a deep moat, and is flanked on three sides by bastions surmounted with
towers 120 and 150 feet apart. Commencing on the shore, the north wall
runs inland a distance of 900 feet; forming an angle at this point
with the eastern wall, the latter extends southward 1728 feet, where
it joins the south wall, which runs to the sea, a distance of 657 feet.
Having an altitude of more than 70 feet, this wall is supported by 17
bastions. To increase its defensive power, the eastern wall is double,
one portion being perpendicular and the other oblique. Near the
northeast angle is a large gateway, the chief entrance to the town on
the east; and in the southern wall, near the shore, there is another
gate, surmounted by one of the watch-towers of the olden city.
Measuring half a mile in length and a quarter in breadth, the whole
area within this inclosure is covered with heaps of rubbish, with deep
intervening pits; and on the one and in the other grow marigolds, white
daisies, chess, thistles, and brambles. Not a fragment of Cæsarea’s
temple remains to be identified, and on its site are the ruins of
the Cathedral of Cæsarea, in which the learned Eusebius officiated as
bishop of the diocese for more than a quarter of a century. Of this
noble edifice four large buttresses are standing, which, from their
height, are seen from afar, presenting an imposing appearance to the
traveler, whether his approach is from the plain on the east or from
the sea on the west. Though a complete ruin, the outline of this early
Christian church can be traced without difficulty. Constructed of
beveled stones, the interior consisted of a nave and two lateral aisles.
Originally extending 143 feet in length, 121 feet of the south wall
continue _in situ_, 13 feet in thickness. In the eastern end is the
chancel, which, consisting of three semicircular apses measuring 60
feet in all, is the breadth of the cathedral. Standing from 16 to 20
feet apart, and being from five to seven feet thick, the four remaining
buttresses formed the grand portico to this Christian temple. Judging
from the projection of the arch, the doorway was 12 feet high, as it
is nine wide. Beneath the church is a dark and loathsome vault 77 feet
long, gradually declining toward the east. It is now the den of jackals
and hyenas.
Illustration: ANCIENT CÆSAREA.
If any work of art is worthy to be called grand, it is the
Herodian harbor of Cæsarea. The breakwater described by Josephus is a
continuation of the southern wall of the acropolis, more than 300 feet
of which are still visible above the sea. Some of the stones in the
lower courses are 20 feet long, six wide, and as many thick. In the
southeast corner of the mole are the remains of a tower, reached by 20
stone steps, and commanding a view of the entire port. The ceiling was
formerly arched, and a portion of an old arch projects from the side,
resting on the figure of a human head. Connected with this tower, and
on a level with the shore, were the apartments for the officers of
custom, the mosaic floors of which remain in excellent condition. On
the very extremity of the mole is another tower, containing a square
room 20 feet high, 30 wide, and 35 long, but the waves are fast wearing
it away. On the northern side of the harbor, flanked by stones 15 feet
long, seven wide, and six thick, are three immense gateways for the
entrance of vessels. Following the shell-strewn shore of a small bay,
we reached the end of the northern wall of the acropolis. The noble
marble pier, once extending into the sea 170 feet, is now a ruin. Its
hundred prostrate columns lie as they fell, most of them parallel to
each other, with now and then one lifting its head in silence above
its fellows, worn by the tireless surges which roll over it, careless
of its former grandeur. To me, sitting on one of those columns far
out into the sea, time passed unconsciously. The day had declined, the
golden sun was sinking into the distant ocean, and, as if an angel had
led me back into the past, I thought of the fall of empires and the
vanity of human glory.
Hailing the first blush of returning day, I sat on the desolate shore
and read the inspired history of Cæsarea. Excepting Jerusalem, no city
in Palestine is more intimately connected with the early Christian
Church. Coming from the interior, the apostles sought the great centres
of commerce, where they preached to men of all nations their catholic
faith. Having baptized the Ethiopian eunuch, Philip the Evangelist
followed the coast, and, preaching Jesus to the inhabitants of all
the maritime cities thereon, he came to Cæsarea.[510] Thirty years
thereafter, here, with his four daughters, he resided as one of the
seven deacons of the infant church, when St. Paul and St. Luke were
his guests. It was in his house that Agabus took Paul’s girdle, and,
binding his own hands and feet, foretold the arrest and imprisonment
of the apostle to the Gentiles.[511] Arrested in the Holy City, here
Paul was brought a prisoner by order of Claudius Lysias, and somewhere
amid these ruins was the dungeon in which he was confined two years.
In obedience to Roman law, hither came Ananias the high-priest, with
the orator Tertullus, to accuse him before the governor. Here stood
the palace of the sordid Felix and his adulterous Drusilla, where
he “reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come;”
and where he made that marvelous defense before Agrippa and Festus,
provoking the taunt from the latter, “Paul, thou art beside thyself;
much learning hath made thee mad;” and extorting the concession from
the former, “Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.” And from
this harbor, now the wreck of earlier grandeur, that apostle entered
the ship Adramyttium, under Julius, a centurion of Augustus’s band,
to prosecute his appeal before Cæsar, and at last to die a martyr at
Ire Fontana, beneath the walls of Rome.[512] Here was the home of the
devout Cornelius, to whom Peter came from Joppa on the coast, 33 miles
to the south, with the keys of the kingdom of heaven, to open its gates
to the Gentiles and baptize the first heathen convert. Here, in the
year 270 A.D., Eusebius Pamphili was born, and subsequently this was
the birthplace of Procopius the historian.
Sending the baggage to Athlît, our party separated to explore the
different parts of the city, agreeing to rendezvous at night at the
above-named place. Riding down the coast with a single companion, we
first examined Herod’s amphitheatre. Located a little south of the
acropolis wall, it occupies a commanding position. Judging from the
shape of the ground, it was originally semicircular in form. Much
of the masonry has survived the waste of time, and among the broken
granite columns is one nine feet in circumference. The arena has an
eastern and western diameter of 69 feet, and a northern and southern
diameter of 78 feet. The seats are of stone, arranged in tiers, and
recede as they ascend, giving a slope from the bottom of the arena to
the outside of the uppermost seat of 90 feet. The width of the eastern
wall, from the highest tier of seats to its outer edge, is 75 feet,
forming a grand promenade. It was not possible to determine whether
this is an embankment of earth faced with masonry or a solid wall. It
is penetrated with arched passage-ways, like those in the amphitheatres
of Capua and Pompeii, which lead to the dens and stalls of the animals
designed for the entertainment of the spectators. On the south side
is one of the principal vomitories leading to the arena; it is 11 feet
wide, 48 long, and is the only one now open. High up in the southeast
part of the building is a solitary seat, just as it was left by the
last spectator by whom it was occupied. The shape of the mounds on the
south indicates that the southern wall of the theatre served as part of
the city wall, as on its extreme western end are the remains of an old
watch-tower containing a circular chamber, and not far to the north are
the ruins of another, occupying a narrow neck of land commanding the
approaches to the coast. It is evident, from the present appearance of
the mounds, that originally the walls extended to the shore, agreeing
with the description of Josephus that “it was conveniently situated for
a prospect to the sea.”[513]
With this theatre stands connected one of the most mournful tragedies
of Bible times. Having murdered the Apostle James and attempted the
life of Peter, Herod Agrippa came from Jerusalem to Cæsarea to call
to account the citizens of Tyre and Sidon, who had incurred his royal
displeasure. Arrayed in robes of gold and silver texture, Herod entered
the theatre on a festive day to deliver an oration to his subjects.
According to an ancient custom, it was early in the morning, and the
sun’s rays, falling upon his resplendent garments, dazzled the eyes of
the beholders, who, in a delirium of joy at the brilliant spectacle,
and at the same time affected by the eloquent tones of his voice, rose
_en masse_ and cried out, “It is the voice of a god and not of a man.
Be thou merciful to us; for, although we have hitherto reverenced thee
only as a man, yet shall we henceforth own thee as superior to mortal
nature.” In this moment of divine homage he looked up and saw above
him, on a rope, an owl, a bird of ill omen. It was the messenger of his
departure. Refusing to rebuke this impious flattery, “the angel of the
Lord smote him, because he gave not God the glory, and he was eaten
up of worms, and gave up the ghost.”[514] Looking upon his flatterers
as he expired, the dying king exclaimed, “I, whom ye call a god, am
commanded presently to depart this life, while Providence thus reproves
the lying words you have just said to me; and I, who was by you
called immortal, am immediately to be hurried away by death.”[515] The
construction of the theatre is in harmony with these serious facts. The
imperial throne being on the west side of the edifice, toward the shore;
the auditors sitting with their backs toward the east; and the building,
like all structures of the kind in Eastern countries, having no roof,
the rising sun shone with dazzling brightness upon the monarch’s robes,
transforming him into an object of indescribable magnificence, and
awakening the acclamations of the people.
Riding eastward through lacerating thorns and briers, we saw a red
granite block, 35 feet long, five wide, and four thick, lying upon
its broad surface, and near it another of less dimensions. Beyond them,
to the north, is Herod’s circus for chariot racing. It consists of
an oblong basin with embanked sides. The three conical shafts of red
granite, averaging from eight to ten feet in length, which marked the
goal of the ancient course, are still standing; and in the midst of
a field not far to the northwest is a deep well, 20 feet in diameter,
with circular mouthpiece and arched roof.
The ride from Cæsarea to Mount Carmel is less remarkable for its
Biblical antiquities than for the pleasures of the tour. It was
11 A.M. when we regained the shore, and I rejoiced in the mysterious
companionship of the sea. The aqueducts of Herod extended for miles on
our right, and, though dry, are in a good condition. The coast is here
lined with low black rocks, against which the waves dash wildly, the
spray reflecting the rainbow. At midday we came to the Nahr Zurka, or
the Crocodile River of Strabo and Pliny, which is a clear and fordable
stream. Having its source among the hills on the east, it flows down
a pretty glen, amid wild flowers and dense shrubbery. To the left is
a low promontory, jutting into the sea, and covered with the shapeless
remains of some unknown light-house. To the right the Samarian Hills
creep down to the shore. The beach soon widened, and was strewn for
miles with white and purple shells to the depth of several feet. In two
hours we passed Tantûra, the Dor of the Scriptures, whose king was the
ally of Jabin of Hazor.[516] It is a small village of 30 houses; and on
an islet to the west is an old tower, which, like an ancient landmark,
is seen from Cæsarea to Carmel. Passing the small towns of Kefr Naum
and Surafend on the right, we reached Athlît at six P.M. on Saturday,
and pitched our tents on a beautiful lawn, beneath the walls of the
_Castellum Peregrinorum_. This is the second most interesting city of
Phœnicia, but the date of its origin and the name of its founder are
unknown. With ruins as vast and grand as those of Cæsarea, the style
of the architecture is superior to that of the city of Herod. Unnoticed
by sacred and profane historians, its name remained in obscurity
till the twelfth century, when the Crusaders selected it as the chief
landing-place for pious pilgrims _en route_ for the Holy City, calling
it the “Pilgrims’ Castle.” It occupies a rocky promontory, and is
bounded on the west by the ever-majestic sea, and on the east by green
hills and fertile plains. Crossing the headland from bay to bay are
the remains of an outer wall, which once inclosed a quadrangular area
a mile in extent. Within this inclosure stood the citadel, inclosed by
a wall 15 feet thick and 30 high. It was constructed of pure Phœnician
stones, and was penetrated by three gates, two on the east and one on
the south, which were reached by stone steps. Opposite the southern
gate is a massive pier 12 feet wide and 150 long, most of which is
still above the water. Here the shore is covered with prostrate columns,
fallen pendentives, broken entablatures, and marred cornices. Rising
out of the sea are sections of the western wall, the southern end of
which is formed of circular stones 12 feet in circumference. Originally
there sprang from this wall a lofty arcade 35 feet wide, and beneath
it ran an arched passage-way across the entire promontory. In the
northwest corner is a large room, to the very door of which vessels
came to land their passengers and discharge their cargoes. To the
northeast of this arcade is a plain Gothic church 20 feet wide and
133 long. The ceiling is supported by 12 arches, springing from as many
plain brackets, each arch culminating in an elegant embossed flower.
The interior is reached by a single door, and its one square and two
pointed windows look upon the sea.
Consisting of a few huts, occupied by inhabitants as filthy as they
are wretched, the modern town of Athlît is piled upon the ruins of the
ancient acropolis. Beneath the citadel are immense vaults, supporting
the formidable fortress above. In the midst of these huts stands the
once magnificent Gothic church of the Crusaders. The remaining wall
is 80 feet high, and is divided into sections by ribs, which rest upon
the heads of human figures. These arches, no doubt, spanned the eastern
aisle of the church in the days of its glory. Such are the splendid
ruins of Athlît. Impressed with its greatness, I experienced the novel
emotions of gazing upon a decayed city whose powerful citizens are
without a record in history. Enumerating Dor and its towns, Joshua may
have included Athlît; or, if it existed at that time, it may not have
been possessed by Issachar.
Two roads lead from the “Pilgrims’ Castle” to Mount Carmel, one
along the coast to Haifa, the other through the Vale of Dor. We took
the latter: the path leads over rich plains, where reapers and gleaners
were gathering the ripened grain. To the east the trees and blades of
corn seemed to rise out of water, but we soon discovered that it was
a mirage. In an hour we reached the mouth of a narrow mountain defile.
To the south of the entrance are two remarkable caves, which some time
have been human habitations. The larger of the two is 300 feet long
and 50 wide. The sides and top are formed into sections by 13 natural
arches, resembling the ribbed ceiling of a Gothic church. The bottom
of the cave declines inward, and near its termination the percolated
water drops from the fretted roof. Entering the mountain gorge, the
lofty hills on either side are covered with oaks, hawthorn, myrtle,
and acacias, and flowers bloomed along the grassy vale. The Sabbath
silence that reigned within was unbroken save by the cooing of the
dove in its mountain home, and the scream of the eagle as he flew from
his inaccessible eyry. The hills soon receded, and the broad valley
was dotted with oaken groves and fields of pasture, where herds of
cattle and flocks of sheep and goats were browsing. Passing through the
village of Asifriah, we descended a steep path leading into a ravine
of extraordinary grandeur. Descending the glen, between mountains which
arose thousands of feet above us, we turned to the north and began
the ascent of Carmel. For two hours we ascended a mountain path steep
and rugged, lined with oaks, acacias, and flowers, when we gained
the summit of the sacred mount, and stood with Elijah of Tishbe, and
Elisha, the son of Shaphat.
Branching off from the northern portion of the mountains of Samaria,
Carmel is a bold and grand promontory projecting into the sea. Running
in a northwesterly direction, it is the boundary-line between the Plain
of Sharon on the south and that of Phœnicia on the north. Rising 2000
feet above the sea, it is 18 miles long and five wide. Covered with
evergreen oaks, it is appropriately called “The Fruitful Field.” As
the type of natural beauty, Isaiah compares the returning glory of his
nation to the “excellency of Carmel,”[517] while Amos predicts that
“the top of Carmel shall wither,”[518] as descriptive of the utter
ruin of his country. From the summit the eye rests upon one of the
noblest landscapes in the world. To the west is that “great sea” seen
by the prophet’s servant; to the south are the Mountains of Samaria;
to the north the Hills of Nazareth; while to the east is the Plain of
Esdraelon, stretching far away to the Jordan in vast undulations, and
dotted with Gilboa, Little Hermon, and Mount Tabor.
But the glory of Carmel is its sacred associations. In the darkest
hour in Jewish history, when Jehovah’s altars were thrown down and his
prophets slain, hither Elijah invited the priests of Baal to test by
fire the superiority of their respective gods. The priests conceding
the existence of Elijah’s God, the contest was to decide whether
Jehovah or Baal should be the supreme divinity of the land. Chastened
by the evils of a long drouth, the people were prepared for a procedure
so extraordinary. Ahab, over whom the infamous Jezebel had gained the
ascendency, was upon the throne of Israel; and, while lost to all the
better feelings of woman’s nature, and irreclaimably abandoned to the
worst forms of idolatry, there remained no hope in the case of the
queen, yet such a divine interposition might act for good on the mind
of the king.
Midway the mountain there is an upland plateau, commanding a view of
the entire plain. In this recess there is a noble fountain, three feet
square, shaded by oaks, and rising above it is that bold and rocky peak
which the prophet’s servant ascended to watch the rising cloud. Here,
in full view of Ahab’s palace, the sacrifices were offered. From the
loose rocks that here abound were taken the stones to build the altars.
From these forests was hewn the wood on which the offerings were placed.
From this mountain spring, either miraculously preserved from becoming
dry during the long drouth, or created by a divine power for the
occasion, were drawn the twelve barrels of water to fill the trench
around the altar of Elijah. From the pasture-fields below, up these
slopes, came the bullocks to be sacrificed; while, covering the gentle
declivities, and extending in vast concentric circles to the plain
beneath, and clinging to every crag and tree above, the people were
gathered to witness the most interesting of all sacrificial scenes.
Around their altar stood the king and priests of Baal, while, wrapped
in his mantle, Elijah stood alone. From morning till noon, and thence
till evening, the prophets of idolatry implored their god in vain. With
an irony that was biting as it was confusing, the prophet of Tishbe
urged them to cry aloud. It was the dawn of his triumph. Sublime in his
simplicity and strong in his isolation, Elijah invited the people near.
Repairing the Lord’s altar, he prepared the sacrifice, and, in answer
to a prayer no less brief than fervent, the fire descended and the
sacrifice was consumed, amid the acclamations of the people, “The Lord,
he is the God!” As the defamers of religion and the enemies of God and
man, the priests of Baal were led down to the banks of the Kishon, from
which they had so recently come in such pomp, and were slain. Ahab and
Elijah reascended the Mount, the former to eat and drink, the latter
to pray. Hearing, in his prophetic ear, the sound of abundance of rain,
Elijah sent his servant up to the loftiest of the mountain peaks to
watch the rising cloud from the bosom of the sea. The heavens grew
dark, the rain began to fall; and in fear lest the Kishon might not be
fordable, Ahab was commanded to hasten to his palace; while, careless
of his age, and in the spirit of a loyal subject to a king whom he had
humbled in the presence of his people, Elijah girded up his loins, and
ran before the chariot of Ahab to the entrance of Jezreel.[519]
Consecrated by an event so remarkable, Carmel subsequently became the
abode of Elisha. It was while looking down, one afternoon, upon this
same great plain he saw the “woman of Shunem” coming in behalf of her
only son. He sent Gehazi to inquire the object of her visit; but she
passed him by, and, pressing up this hill, laid her complaint before
him. Descending from his mountain retreat, he hastened to her home of
sorrow and restored her child to life.[520]
In after years Carmel was regarded with a superstitious veneration even
by the learned heathen. Here Pythagoras passed some time in solitary
meditations, and hither Vespasian came to consult the oracle which
became so famous.