Haifa, Dec. 10.—About sixteen miles to the south of the projecting point
of Carmel, upon which the celebrated monastery is perched above the sea,
there lies a tract of land which has suddenly acquired an interest owing
to the fact of its having been purchased by the Central Jewish
Colonization Society of Roumania, with a view of placing upon it
emigrants of the Hebrew persuasion who have been compelled to quit the
country of their adoption in consequence of the legal disabilities to
which they are subjected in it, and who have determined upon making a
_bona fide_ attempt to change the habits of their lives and engage in
agricultural pursuits. I was invited by the local agent in charge of
this enterprise to accompany him on a visit to the new property, whither
he was bound with a view of making arrangements for housing and placing
upon it the first settlers. Traversing the northern portion of the
fertile plain of Sharon, which extends from Jaffa to Carmel, we enter by
a gorge into the lower spurs of the Carmel range, which is distant at
this point about three miles from the seacoast, and, winding up a steep
path, find ourselves upon a fertile plateau about four hundred feet
above the level of the sea. Here over a thousand acres of pasture and
arable land have been purchased, on which a small hamlet of half a dozen
native houses and a storehouse belonging to the late proprietor compose
the existing accommodation. This hamlet is at present occupied by the
fellahin who worked the land for its former owner, and it is proposed to
retain their services as laborers and copartners in the cultivation of
the soil until the new-comers shall have become sufficiently
indoctrinated in the art of agriculture to be able to do for themselves.
The experiment of associating Jews and Moslem fellahin in field labor
will be an interesting one to watch, and the preliminary discussions on
the subject were more picturesque than satisfactory. The meeting took
place in the storehouse, where Jews and Arabs squatted promiscuously
amid the heaps of grain, and chaffered over the terms of their mutual
copartnership. It would be difficult to imagine anything more utterly
incongruous than the spectacle thus presented—the stalwart fellahin,
with their wild, shaggy, black beards, the brass hilts of their pistols
projecting from their waistbands, their tasselled kufeihahs drawn
tightly over their heads and girdled with coarse black cords, their
loose, flowing abbas, and sturdy bare legs and feet; and the ringleted,
effeminate-looking Jews, in caftans reaching almost to their ankles, as
oily as their red or sandy locks, or the expression of their
countenances—the former inured to hard labor on the burning hillsides of
Palestine, the latter fresh from the Ghetto of some Roumanian town,
unaccustomed to any other description of exercise than that of their
wits, but already quite convinced that they knew more about agriculture
than the people of the country, full of suspicion of all advice tendered
to them, and animated by a pleasing self-confidence which I fear the
first practical experience will rudely belie. In strange contrast with
these Roumanian Jews was the Arab Jew who acted as interpreter—a stout,
handsome man, in Oriental garb, as unlike his European coreligionists as
the fellahin themselves. My friend and myself, in the ordinary costume
of the British or American tourist, completed the party.
The discussion was protracted beyond midnight—the native peasants
screaming in Arabic, the Roumanian Israelites endeavoring to outtalk
them in German jargon, the interpreter vainly trying to make himself
heard, everybody at cross-purposes because no one was patient enough to
listen till another had finished, or modest enough to wish to hear
anybody speak but himself. Tired out, I curled myself on an Arab
coverlet, which seemed principally stuffed with fleas, but sought repose
in vain. At last a final rupture was arrived at, and the fellahin left
us, quivering with indignation at the terms proposed by the new-comers.
Sleep brought better counsel to both sides, and an arrangement was
finally arrived at next morning which I am afraid has only to be put
into operation to fail signally. There is nothing more simple than
farming in co-operation with the fellahin of Palestine if you go the
right way to work about it, and nothing more hopeless if attempted upon
a system to which they are unaccustomed. Probably, after a considerable
loss of time, money, and especially of temper, a more practical _modus
operandi_ will be arrived at. I am bound to say that I did not discover
any aversion on the part of the Moslem fellahin to the proprietorship by
Israelites of their land, on religious grounds. The only difficulty lay
in the division of labor and of profit, where the owners of the land
were entirely ignorant of agriculture, and therefore dependent on the
co-operation of the peasants, on terms to be decided between them.
I eagerly welcomed the first streaks of dawn to get out of the close
atmosphere in which three had been sleeping besides myself, and watch
the sun rise over the eastern mountains of Palestine. Ascending to the
top of the hill in rear of the hamlet, I enjoyed a magnificent view. To
the south the eye followed the coast-line to a point where the ruins of
Cæsarea, plainly visible through a glass, bounded the prospect. From the
plain of Sharon, behind it, the hills rose in swelling undulations,
unusually well-wooded for Palestine, to a height of about two thousand
feet, the smoke of numerous villages mingling with the morning haze. In
the extreme distance to the northeast might be discerned the lofty
summits of Hermon, and in the middle distance the rounded top of Tabor;
while northward, in immediate proximity, was the range of Carmel, with
the Mediterranean bounding the western horizon. While exploring the
newly purchased tract and examining its agricultural capabilities, I
came upon what were evidently the traces—they could hardly be called the
ruins—of an ancient town. They were on a rocky hillside, not far from
the hamlet. My attention was first attracted by what had evidently been
an old Roman road, the worn ruts of the chariot-wheels being plainly
visible in the rock. Farther on were the marks of ancient quarrying, the
spaces in the rock, about two feet square, showing where massive blocks
had been hewn. The former owners of the property, observing the interest
with which I examined these traces, took me to a spot where the natives,
in quarrying, had unearthed a piece of wall composed of stone blocks of
the same size, neatly fitted, and approached by steps carved in the
rock. In close proximity to this was a monument, the meaning of which I
was for some time at a loss to conjecture. It consisted of three sides
of a square excavation hewn out of the solid rock of the hillside,
uncovered, and the depth of which it was difficult to determine, on
account of the débris which had accumulated. Upon the faces of the
chamber thus formed, rows of small niches had been carved, each niche
about a foot high, six inches wide, and six inches deep. The niches were
about two inches apart, and on one face I counted six rows or tiers of
eighteen niches each. The other sides were not so perfect, and the rock
had broken away in places. I finally decided that the whole had probably
in ancient times been a vault appropriated to the reception of cinerary
urns, but the matter is one which I must leave to some more experienced
antiquarian than I am to determine definitely. It is not to be wondered
at that this obscure and partially concealed ruin should have escaped
the notice of the Palestine Exploration Survey.
One of the fellahin now told us of a marvel in the neighbourhood. It was
a hole in the rock, to which, by applying one's ear, one could hear the
roar of a mighty river. Attracted by the prospect of so singular a
phenomenon, we scrambled through the prickly underwood with which the
hillsides are thickly covered, and finally emerged upon a small valley,
at the head of which was an open grassy space, and near it a table of
flat limestone rock. In the centre of it was an oblong hole, about two
inches by three, the sides of which had been worn smooth by the curious
or superstitious, who had probably visited the spot for ages. First, the
Arab stretched himself at full length, and laid his ear upon the
aperture. I followed suit, and became conscious not only of a strong
draught rushing upward from subterranean depths, but of a distant
roaring sound, as of a remote Niagara. For a moment I was puzzled, and
the Arab was triumphant, for I had treated his rushing subterranean
river with a contemptuous scepticism; yet here were undeniably the
sounds of roaring water. Had it been a distant gurgle or trickle it
would have been explicable, but it was manifestly impossible that any
river could exist large enough to produce the sounds I heard. Though the
day was perfectly still, the draught upward was strong enough to blow
away the corner of a handkerchief held over the mouth of the hole. At
last I solved the problem to my own satisfaction. By ascending the hill
on the right the roar of “the loud-voiced neighbouring ocean,” distant
between two and three miles, was distinctly audible. It had been blowing
the day before, and the rollers were breaking upon the long line of
coast. I now conjectured that the crack in the rock must extend to some
cavern on the seashore, and form a sort of whispering-gallery,
conducting the sound of the breakers with great distinctness to the top
of the hills, but blending them so much that it seemed at first a
continuous rushing noise. This was an explanation contrary to all
tradition, and it was received by the Arab with incredulity.
We now descended once more to the plains, and, crossing them, reached
the village of Tantura, where we arrived about midday, passing first,
however, the ruined fortress of Muzraá, a massive block of masonry about
fifty yards square, the walls of which are standing to a height of about
ten feet; then turning aside to the old Roman bridge, which spans in a
single high arch the artificial cutting through the limestone rocks by
which the ancients facilitated the egress of a winter-torrent to the
sea. The inhabitants of Tantura have the reputation of being very bad
people, and three years ago I saw a party of French tourists at
Jerusalem who had been attacked and robbed by them. We were, however,
entertained with the greatest hospitality, having a levée of the sheik
and village notables, and with difficulty escaping from a banquet which
they were preparing for us. They live in a miserable collection of
hovels amid the almost defaced ruins of the old town, traces of which,
however, are abundant in the neighbourhood. A lofty fragment of wall on
a projecting promontory half a mile to the north of the town is all that
remains of what must have been a castle of grand dimensions. A chain of
small, rocky islets, a few hundred yards from the shore, forms a sort of
natural breakwater, and at very little expense Tantura could be
converted into a good port. As it is, when the weather is smooth, native
craft run in here, and when once at their anchorage can defy any gale.
Tantura, or Dor, was one of the towns assigned to the half tribe of
Manasseh, but we read that they failed to expel the Canaanites from it,
though when Israel “became strong they put them to tribute, but did not
utterly drive them out.”
In the time of the Romans Dor was a mercantile town of some importance,
and, though in the wars of the Diadochi it was besieged and partly
destroyed, the Roman general Gabinius restored the town and harbor, and
its architectural beauty was such that we read that even in the time of
St. Jerome its ruins were still an object of admiration. Unfortunately,
since the Turkish occupation, all these coast cities have been used as
quarries for the construction of mosques and fortifications. The marble
and granite pillars and columns, and the carved blocks of stone which
formed the outside casings of the walls, have been carried away, leaving
nothing but the mere skeletons of ruins as forlorn and desolate as the
peasantry who find shelter beneath them.