North from Jerusalem.
We left Jerusalem by the Jaffa Gate. Not far from the city wall there
is a superb terebinth tree, now in the full glory of its shining green
leaves. It appears to be bathed in a perpetual dew; the rounded masses
of foliage sparkle and glitter in the light, and the great spreading
boughs flood the turf below with a deluge of delicious shade. A number
of persons were reclining on the grass under it, and one of them, a very
handsome Christian boy, spoke to us in Italian and English. I scarcely
remember a brighter and purer day than that of our departure. The sky was
a sheet of spotless blue; every rift and scar of the distant hills was
retouched with a firmer pencil, and all the outlines, blurred away by the
haze of the previous few days, were restored with wonderful distinctness.
The temperature was hot, but not sultry, and the air we breathed was an
elixir of immortality.
Through a luxuriated olive grove we reached the Tombs of the Kings,
situated in a small valley to the north of the city. Part of the valley,
if not the whole of it, has been formed by quarrying away the crags of
marble and conglomerate limestone for building the city. Near the edge
of the low cliffs overhanging it, there are some illustrations of the
ancient mode of cutting stone, which, as well as the custom of excavating
tombs in the rocks, was evidently borrowed from Egypt. The upper surface
of the rocks was first made smooth, after which the blocks were mapped
out and cut apart by grooves chiseled between them. I visited four or
five tombs, each of which had a sort of vestibule or open portico in
front. The door was low, and the chambers which I entered, small and
black, without sculptures of any kind. There were fragments of sarcophagi
in some of them. On the southern side of the valley is a large quarry,
evidently worked for marble, as the blocks have been cut out from below,
leaving a large overhanging mass, part of which has broken off and fallen
down. The opening of the quarry made a striking picture, the soft pink
hue of the weather-stained rock contrasting exquisitely with the vivid
green of the vines festooning the entrance.
From the long hill beyond the tombs, we took our last view of Jerusalem,
far beyond whose walls I saw the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem.
Notwithstanding its sanctity, I felt little regret at leaving Jerusalem,
and cheerfully took the rough road northward over the stony hills.
There were few habitations in sight, yet the hillsides were cultivated,
wherever it was possible for anything to grow. After four hours’ ride we
reached El Bireh, a little village on a hill, with the ruins of a convent
and a large Khan. The place takes its name from a fountain of excellent
water, beside which we found our tents already pitched. The night was
calm and cool, and the full moon poured a flood of light over the bare
and silent hills.
We rose long before sunrise and rode off in the brilliant morning—the
sky unstained by a speck of vapor. In the valley, beyond El Bireh, the
husbandmen were already at their plows, and the village boys were on
their way to the uncultured parts of the hills with their flocks of sheep
and goats. The valley terminated in a deep gorge, with perpendicular
walls of rock on either side. Our road mounted the hill on the eastern
side, and followed the brink of the precipice through the pass, where an
enchanting landscape opened upon us.
The village of Zebroud crowned a hill which rose opposite, and the
mountain slopes leaning toward it on all sides were covered with
orchards of fig trees, and either rustling with wheat or cleanly plowed
for maize. The soil was a dark brown loam, and very rich. The stones
have been laboriously built into terraces; and, even where heavy rocky
boulders almost hid the soil, young fig and olive trees were planted in
the crevices between them. I have never seen more thorough and patient
cultivation. In the crystal of the morning air the very hills laughed
with plenty, and the whole landscape beamed with the signs of gladness on
its countenance.
The site of ancient Bethel was not far to the right of our road. Over
hills laden with the olive, fig and vine, we passed to Aian el Haramiyeh,
or the fountain of the robbers. Here there are tombs cut in the rock on
both sides of the valley. Over another ridge, we descend to a large,
bowl-shaped valley, entirely covered with wheat, and opening eastward
toward the Jordan. Thence to Nablous (the Shechem of the Old and Sychar
of the New Testament) is four hours through a winding dell of the richest
harvest land. On the way, we first caught sight of the snowy top of Mount
Hermon, distant at least eighty miles in a straight line. Before reaching
Nablous, I stopped to drink at a fountain of clear sweet water, beside
a square pile of masonry, upon which sat two Moslem dervishes. This, we
were told, was the tomb of Joseph, whose body, after having accompanied
the Israelites in all their wanderings, was at last deposited near
Shechem.
There is less reason to doubt this spot than most of the sacred places of
Palestine, for the reason that it rests not on Christian, but on Jewish
tradition. The wonderful tenacity with which the Jews cling to every
record or memento of their early history, and the fact that from the time
of Joseph a portion of them have always lingered near the spot, render it
highly probable that the locality of a spot so sacred should have been
preserved from generation to generation to the present time.
Leaving the tomb of Joseph, the road turned to the west and entered the
narrow pass between Mounts Ebal and Gerizim. The former is a steep,
barren peak, clothed with terraces of cactus, standing on the northern
side of the pass. Mount Gerizim is cultivated nearly to the top, and is
truly a mountain of blessing, compared with its neighbors. Through an
orchard of grand old olive trees, we reached Nablous, which presented a
charming picture, with its long mass of white, dome-topped stone houses,
stretching along the foot of Gerizim through a sea of bowery orchards.
The bottom of the valley resembles some old garden run to waste.