Haifa, April 15.—At the spot where the Jordan issues from Lake Tiberias
there are two large mounds, a fragment of sea-wall, and a causeway on
arches which projects into the river, dividing it from the waters of the
lake, and suggesting that it may possibly, in ancient times, have formed
the approach to a bridge. There is no bridge there now. The river swirls
round the arches, which are choked with ruins and reeds, and in a broad,
swift stream winds its way to the Dead Sea. Here, in old time, stood the
Roman city of Tarichæa, built on the site of a Phœnician fortress of
still older date. Nothing remains but heaps of rubbish covered with
broken pottery, and fragments of sculpture; but it offers, probably, a
rich field for future excavation. The modern name Kerak signifies in
Syriac “fortress,” and its natural position was remarkably strong, as
the Jordan, after leaving the lake, takes a sharp bend to the westward
and flows almost parallel with it, thus leaving an intervening peninsula
on which the town was situated. It was defended on the westward by a
broad ditch, traces of which still remain, connecting the Jordan with
the lake, thus making the peninsula an island approached only by a
causeway.
Josephus mentions Tarichæa as having been an important military post in
the wars of his time. When I visited it the lake was unusually high, and
the Jordan was unfordable, so we were obliged to ferry over, swimming
our horses and mules a distance of seventy or eighty yards across the
rapid current. Then we mounted, and galloped in a southeasterly
direction, over a fertile plain, waving at this season of the year with
luxuriant crops. I was so much struck with the fertility and
agricultural capacity of this region that I made inquiry as to its
ownership, and found that it had been presented by a former sultan to
one of the principal Bedouin sheiks of this Eastern country, and that he
was exempt from all taxation. His lands extend to the foothills, where
the Yarmuk issues from the mountains of Gilead and Jaulan, which we were
now approaching. We had ascended these but a little way when a scene
burst upon us which surprised and delighted us by its wild and
unexpected grandeur. The Yarmuk here enters the plain of the Jordan on
its way to join that river, with a volume of water fully equal to the
latter, pouring its swollen torrent between two perfectly perpendicular
precipices of basalt, which are about two hundred yards apart, and look
like some majestic gateway expressly designed by nature to afford the
river a fitting outlet to the plain after its wild course through the
mountains.
On each side of these cliffs the country swells back abruptly to a
height of seventeen hundred feet above the stream. At their base, here
and there, the limestone or basalt rock, for the two formations are
curiously intermixed, crops out sharply, forming terraces with
precipitous sides. The more distant summits are fringed with oak
forests. The general effect of the landscape, as you first burst upon it
after leaving the Jordan valley, is in the highest degree impressive.
The path, gradually ascending, winds along the edge of cliffs, rising to
a sheer height of three hundred feet from the torrent which foams
beneath. We are so close to their margin on the right that it makes us
giddy to look down, while on the left hand grassy slopes, covered with
wild flowers, rise to the base of other cliffs above us. For an hour we
wind along these dizzy ledges. In one place I observed a hundred feet of
limestone superimposed upon two hundred of basalt, the whole forming a
black-and-white precipice very remarkable to look upon. In fact, my
further investigations of this valley of the Yarmuk, some portion of
which, I believe, we were the first to explore, have convinced me that
it affords finer scenery than is to be found in any other part of
Palestine. It is astonishing that it should have remained until now
almost entirely unknown. Where the valley opened a little we saw beneath
us a small plain, almost encircled by the river, and on it about twenty
Bedouin tents. Our unexpected and novel appearance on the cliff above
evidently caused some little stir and amazement, but they were too far
below us to communicate with, so we pushed on to a point where the path
suddenly plunged down by a series of steps between walls of black
basalt, making a very steep descent for loaded mules, and one not
altogether pleasant for mounted men. It had the advantage of bringing us
soon to the bottom, however, but not before my eyes were gladdened by
the sight of one of the objects for which I had undertaken the trip.
At my feet, and separated from the river by a narrow strip of land
covered with bushes, was a long pool of bluish-gray water, in marked
contrast with the yellow stream. Above it floated a very light mist, or,
rather, haze. Following with the eye a little stream of the same
coloured water which entered it, past a primitive mill, I saw that it
debouched from another pond similar in colour, and evidently its source,
and to this our path was conducting us. It was the first of the hot
sulphur springs of Amatha, celebrated by Eusebius as being much
frequented in the time of the Romans, and famous for their healing
qualities. We soon reached its margin, and, dismounting, tethered our
horses under the shade of a large tree, and stretched ourselves for a
rest after our ride, preparatory to a slight repast and a more minute
investigation of the springs and the ruins by which they are surrounded.
Our nostrils were regaled by a strong odour of rotten eggs, which left
no doubt in our minds as to the quality of the water in the immediate
neighborhood. We were here at a depression of five hundred and fifty
feet below the surface of the sea, but the climate, which must be
intolerably hot in summer, was at this time of year delightful. We were
soon sufficiently rested to scramble down to the pool, only a few yards
below us, which was about fifty yards long by thirty broad, and
apparently five or six feet deep. The temperature was 98°, and the taste
of the water very strongly sulphurous. Then we ascended a mound behind,
covered with ruins, consisting principally of fragments of columns,
carved stone seats, and drafted blocks which had been used for building
purposes. Immediately behind this mound was an extensive ruin,
consisting of three arches in a fair state of preservation. Two of the
arches were fifteen or twenty feet high, and enclosed a semicircular
space or hall for bathers. On the other side was a vaulted building
which partly enclosed what is at this day the only frequented spring.
This is a circular pool. Part of the old masonry which enclosed it still
remains. The pool is about twenty-five feet wide, with a temperature so
high that I found it impossible to keep my hand in it. To my great
astonishment, and to theirs also when they saw me suddenly appear, four
or five Arabs were bathing in it. How their bodies could support the
heat was to me a mystery. They did not support it long. They were no
sooner in than out, their bodies looking as much like lobsters as the
complexion of their skins would permit. They laughed, and invited me to
join them. One or two were stretched full length on the identical stone
slabs under the building on which, doubtless, two thousand years ago,
the bathers of that date used to repose after having been half boiled
alive.
This spring must be of immense volume, to judge by the size of the
torrent which gushed from it, and which was crossed on stepping-stones,
flowing away in what would be considered a good-sized trout stream, to
mingle its waters with the Yarmuk after a course of a few hundred yards.
We determined, when our tents arrived, to pitch them near this spring,
on the brink of another stream which flowed in from the eastward, and
which, though slightly sulphurous, was drinkable. Indeed, we did not
object to taking a moderate amount of this wholesome medicament into our
organisms. We found another strong spring, not quite so hot as the one
in use, a little above our tents, so that there is no lack of water.
Indeed, I doubt whether sulphur springs of so much volume exist anywhere
else in the world. Not far from this, with its back to another mound,
were the ruins of an old Roman theatre, some of the rows of seats still
clearly discernible.
These springs are situated on a plain about a mile long and half a mile
broad, semicircular in shape, the chord of the arc consisting of a line
of basalt precipices, from which it slopes gradually to the river, which
forms the bow. It is watered by a good fresh-water spring, which rushes
from the base of the cliffs. The hot sulphur stream which issues from
the pool we first visited turns a mill and then flows into the long,
oblong pond I first saw from above. Here, after the exertions of the
day, I determined to bathe. I never enjoyed a swim more than the one in
this soft sulphur water, with a temperature of 95°. The pool was about
one hundred yards long and ten wide, and out of my depth nearly
throughout its length. The rocks, upon which I could sit comfortably up
to my neck, where the stream entered the pool were covered with a heavy
white deposit. The sensation afterwards was one of delicious languor;
but my full enjoyment of the bath was a little marred by the fact that I
had to walk a quarter of a mile back to the tents afterwards. I had a
long talk on my way, to the miller, the solitary resident of this lonely
but enchanting spot, and tried to induce him to desert the mill, of
which he was the guardian, and act as my guide up the river on the
following day; but he was either too conscientious, too lazy, or too
ignorant—I suspect the latter, as I found by experience that all the
information he gave me of a topographical nature was utterly erroneous.
It was, therefore, with a pleasing sense of anticipation that we retired
to rest, determined to trust to our own geographical instincts alone for
our proposed exploration.