Haifa, Sept. 15.—When I last visited Jericho, six years ago, it
consisted of a miserable village of mud huts, containing a population of
mixed negroes and Bedouins, amounting at most to three hundred souls. I
was astonished now to find that, of all places in the world, it was
going ahead. There was a sort of boom going on; a very minute boom, it
is true, but still it was progress, and there is no saying what it may
lead to.
It is due entirely to the Russians, and I think that a progressive
Jericho, owing to Russian enterprise, is a phenomenon worthy of remark.
Indirectly it may be attributed to the passion Russian pilgrims have for
bathing in the Jordan and carrying away bottles full of the water of
that sacred stream. This passion for holy ablutions is one which a wise
and far-seeing government has turned to profitable political account. It
was only in obedience to the most ordinary instincts of humanity that
some sort of accommodation should be provided for the pious crowds,
consisting largely of old and frail women, who trudge thirty miles in a
broiling sun to bathe in the Jordan, and who could not find a roof to
shelter them, or a place in which to be fed, until they got back to
Jerusalem. So a large, handsome, red-stone building, not unlike a state
lunatic asylum, has been erected for their accommodation at Jericho.
Here not only the Russian pilgrim, but the ordinary travelling lunatic,
can find first-class accommodation.
The protection which so handsome an establishment afforded was all that
was required to give a start to the place. Devout Russians, always
acting under the auspices of a pious, intelligent, and paternal
government, are beginning gradually to make Jericho a place of winter
resort. They build little cottages there, surround them with gardens
which supply them with most delicious fruit and vegetables, spend their
summers in Jerusalem, and come down here in the winter and bathe in the
Jordan to their hearts' content. In other words, in a religious and
quite unostentatious way, Russia is quietly colonizing Jericho. The
obnoxious word colony, so hateful to Turkish ears, is never pronounced,
but I counted no fewer than twelve neat little whitewashed cottages,
where a few years ago there was not one.
One of my travelling companions, who was an English medical man of some
eminence, was so much struck with the climatic advantages of the place
as a winter resort for consumptive patients that, now that good
accommodation is to be found there, he has decided to advise invalids to
try the effects of its air. Hitherto when one told a person “to go to
Jericho” it was a polite way of intimating to him that he might go
somewhere else, Jericho being the next hottest place known to that more
distant region; but now we may tell our friends to go to Jericho in a
spirit of benevolence, in the hope that it may restore them to health.
What an unbearable place, by the way, Jericho would be if all the bores
who have been metaphorically sent there had literally gone. As it is, I
cannot imagine a more agreeable place for a person not absolutely
dependent upon society to go to and spend a month or two in winter.
There is a peculiar softness and balminess in the air, not to be found
elsewhere in the world, for there is no other place in the world eleven
hundred feet below the sea-line. There is a wide, level, open plain to
scamper across on horseback in all directions; there are thickets of
tamarisk and nebk and bamboo swarming with wild boar, deer, gazelle, and
other animals, some of them not to be found elsewhere, to delight the
sportsman. There is the Jordan handy, with first-rate fishing to satisfy
the most ardent angler; there is the Dead Sea to bathe in and boat on
(only there are no boats) for persons whose tastes are aquatic. There is
a flora which would be a source of never-ending interest to the
botanist, for it is peculiar to this region; and the same remark
applies, to some extent, to its ornithology and entomology. There are
ancient ruins in all directions to satisfy the most inveterate
archæologist, while the explorer has only to cross the Jordan, and in a
few hours he will find himself in a region almost untrodden by the foot
of the tourist, with all manner of interesting discoveries awaiting him.
Then he is still comparatively in the world, for a smart ride of five
hours will take him back to Jerusalem, and he need not be afraid of
having to suffer hardship, for the fare in the Russian hospice is
reported excellent, especially in the matter of milk and vegetables. My
advice, then, to the invalid, the sportsman, the man of natural history,
and the antiquarian, who may be looking out for a new winter resort, is,
“Go to Jericho!” There is no particular reason that I can see why the
Russians should have a monopoly of this charming spot, though we should
be very much obliged to them for making it habitable. No doubt when the
partition of “the sick man's” property, for which they have been waiting
so long, takes place, they will put in a claim for Jericho.
Meantime I am glad to see that the government seem to be put upon their
mettle. Not only have they built a handsome aqueduct across the ravine
on which the modern village stands, but they have cleared a large
expanse of the plain on the other side with a view of bringing it into
cultivation and irrigating it by means of the said aqueduct. This plain
extends in an unbroken level to the Dead Sea, and affords a pleasant
six-miles scamper. It is the grazing-ground generally of large herds of
camels, and on a hot and thirsty day they come in very opportunely. They
are ever-ready if not ever-willing fountains, and there is nothing more
refreshing than a drink of warm camels' milk. It is not easy to milk
them, as they don't like strangers, and one is apt to get charged by a
savage mother who mistakes one's intentions. Moreover, it requires some
dexterity to milk a camel into a tumbler. In fact, this is difficult
with any animal. I have had a battle with a nanny-goat on a bare
Palestine hillside when I was thirsty, which ended in my utter
discomfiture. The only plan is to backshish the goatherd or camelherd.
It is an odd sight to see a young camel tugging away at one side of its
mother and the camelherd tugging away at the other, and the resigned old
female chewing her cud between them; it suggested to me a design for a
picture which I sent to an artist friend, to be called “The Rivals.”
With the Dead Sea and the burning hills of Moab for a background, I
think it would make rather an effective picture.
However often I might visit the Dead Sea, I would always bathe in it, in
spite of its stickiness afterwards. The sensation of floating without
the slightest effort for an indefinite time when one is hot and tired is
infinitely soothing.
The government intend building a bridge over the Jordan, and on my way
back from visiting its proposed site I passed the much-disputed position
of Gilgal, where the Israelites made their first camp in the Promised
Land. This has but recently been identified by the ever-to-be-lamented
Palestine explorer, Mr. Tyrwhitt Drake, who fell a victim to his zeal in
the Jordan valley. Nothing is to be seen there now but some mounds, in
which have been found pottery, broken glass, and tesseræ. It was for
long the resting-place of the Ark and the Tabernacle. It was somewhere
on this plain that Sodom and Gomorrah, “the Cities of the Plain,” were
situated, and not to the south of the Dead Sea, as was formerly
supposed, but their sites have been looked for in vain.
The great events of which the plain of Jericho had in early times been
the scene, together with its traditional connection with the temptation
of Christ on the Mount, which rises abruptly behind the Spring of
Ain-es-Sultan, and actual interest with regard to his baptism in the
Jordan and other events, attracted the Christians of a very early age to
this part of the country. Hence from Justinian's time the plain began to
be covered with monastic edifices, and the gorges and precipices of the
enclosing mountains to be burrowed with hermit's caves and sacred
shrines and chapels.
There is a tendency, on the part especially of the Greek and Armenian
churches, to reoccupy some of these. Certainly of all the uncomfortable
and dreary and broiling monasteries I ever saw, that of Kusr Hajlah,
near the Dead Sea, now inhabited by half a dozen monks, claims
pre-eminence. It is placed just on the edge of the saline plain, which
exhales in summer a pungent heat that must render life almost
insupportable. Nevertheless, it bears all the marks of having been an
important mediæval monastery. The old walls still exist on three sides,
and measure about forty yards by sixty. These contained two chapels
above ground and one beneath in the vaults. The walls are still covered
with frescoes, the designs of which are distinctly visible, as well as
the inscriptions in Greek beneath them. They are evidently of Crusading
times. There is a large cistern here, thirty feet by ten and twenty-four
deep, which is in good preservation. So is another at the monastery of
El-Yahud, thirty feet deep, with piers and arches also almost perfect.
This monastery is distant about half an hour from the Jordan, and dates
from the twelfth century. It stands on the site of one which was called
the Monastery of St. John on the Jordan, but which was destroyed by an
earthquake. The interest attaching to these monasteries, however, is
comparatively slight. Upon archæological grounds they exhibit no very
striking features, while from a religious point of view they are
significant chiefly as showing how soon the religion of Christ became
degraded into a system of useless asceticism, and, considering the
tendency which is exhibited to return to it, the lamentable reflection
is forced upon one that the true spirit of Christianity is as little
understood now as it was in those days.
The monks who inhabit these buildings are in one sense as interesting as
the buildings themselves, for one has only to converse with them to be
transported to the Middle Ages. They are probably the only class of men
who have remained absolutely unaffected by nineteenth-century
civilization or modes of thought. They are like the toads that have been
locked up for centuries in stone, and might in so far as their religious
views are concerned be the identical individuals who, in the time of the
crusaders, used to inhabit the cells they now occupy. From a
psychological point of view, then, it is curious to converse with them
on matters of faith and religion, for unless one has had personal
experience of the degree of ignorance and superstition which are still
to be found in a recluse of the Armenian Church, for instance, one could
not credit the fact that such a being exists; and still represents a
considerable class in the days in which we live.
The Arabs around Jericho are of a tribe called Abou Nuseir. They
venerate a place called “The Place of Sepulchre of Dawar.” This
personage was their ancestor, and the Abou Nuseir bury their dead in the
tombs of the Dawar people. Arabs of any other tribe passing this spot
make use of the expression, “Permission, oh, Dawar,” and the valley is
sacred, and ploughs, grain, and other articles are deposited here for
safety. The usual votive offerings—sticks, rags, bracelets—are found
near the tombs. This tribe is scattered about in tents among the thorny
bushes that cover the plain, amid which their flocks find good pasture.
They are reputed to have a bad character, but we made great friends with
them, owing to a circumstance which secured their gratitude.
While sitting by the fountain one afternoon we saw a number of Arabs
carrying a man on a litter. This excited our doctor's curiosity, and we
immediately hailed the procession. They told us they had a wounded man,
and we replied we had a doctor, and they waited till we came up. In
fact, an elderly man had just received a bullet in the leg from a friend
with whom he had had a quarrel, which splintered the bone a little below
the knee. The ball was still lodged in the leg. The doctor, who had made
five military campaigns, and had probably dressed as many gunshot wounds
as any man alive, was in his element. Instantly the man was taken to the
nearest tents, splints of bamboo and bandages of flour and the white of
an egg were speedily extemporized, while a large audience of
wild—looking men, women, children, and dogs crowded around to watch
operations.
The ball was probed for, not with any surgical instrument, for we were
unprepared for any such emergency, but with the finger. The only
instruments forthcoming were a penknife and a razor. The question was
how to get the ball out with such appliances. The occasion was one which
called for a display of genius, but the demand was not made in vain;
with that simplicity which is its most marked characteristic, the doctor
cut into the opposite side of the leg with the razor, and then pushed
the ball clean through with his finger. The astonishment of the audience
was excessive at the appearance of the crushed bullet, and the wounded
man, a weather-beaten old Semite, who had bellowed lustily while the
operation was going on, kissed the doctor's hand effusively, and
consoled himself with coffee and cigarettes, in which we joined, while
the bandaging and splinting was in progress. For a couple of days after
this the doctor visited his patient twice a day amid the warmest
expressions of gratitude on the part of the tribe, who forthwith brought
all their sick to be cured, and the blessings which were invoked upon us
echoed in our ears when we took our departure, till they died away in
the distance.