travelling in the East. Of what material is formed the nether man of a
Turk I have never been informed, but I am sure that it is not flesh and
blood. No flesh and blood,--simply flesh and blood,--could withstand the
wear and tear of a Turkish saddle. This being the case, and the
consequences being well known to me, I was grieved to find that Smith
was not properly provided. He was seated on one of those hard, red,
high-pointed machines, in which the shovels intended to act as stirrups
are attached in such a manner, and hang at such an angle, as to be
absolutely destructive to the leg of a Christian. There is no part of
the Christian body with which the Turkish saddle comes in contact that
does not become more or less macerated. I have sat in one for days, but
I left it a flayed man; and, therefore, I was sorry for Smith.
I explained this to him, taking hold of his leg by the calf to show how
the leather would chafe him; but it seemed to me that he did not quite
like my interference. “Never mind,” said he, twitching his leg away, “I
have ridden in this way before.”
“Then you must have suffered the very mischief?”
“Only a little, and I shall be used to it now. You will not hear me
complain.”
“By heavens, you might have heard me complain a mile off when I came to
the end of a journey I once took. I roared like a bull when I began to
cool. Joseph, could you not get a European saddle for Mr. Smith?” But
Joseph did not seem to like Mr. Smith, and declared such a thing to be
impossible. No European in Jerusalem would think of lending so precious
an article, except to a very dear friend. Joseph himself was on an
English saddle, and I made up my mind that after the first stage, we
would bribe him to make an exchange. And then we started. The Bedouins
were not with us, but we were to meet them, as I have said before,
outside St. Stephen’s gate. “And if they are not there,” said Joseph,
“we shall be sure to come across them on the road.”
“Not there!” said I. “How about the consul’s tariff, if they don’t keep
their part of the engagement?” But Joseph explained to me that their
part of the engagement really amounted to this,--that we should ride
into their country without molestation, provided that such and such
payments were made.
It was the period of Easter, and Jerusalem was full of pilgrims. Even at
that early hour of the morning we could hardly make our way through the
narrow streets. It must be understood that there is no accommodation in
the town for the fourteen or fifteen thousand strangers who flock to the
Holy Sepulchre at this period of the year. Many of them sleep out in the
open air, lying on low benches which run along the outside walls of the
houses, or even on the ground, wrapped in their thick hoods and cloaks.
Slumberers such as these are easily disturbed, nor are they detained
long at their toilets. They shake themselves like dogs, and growl and
stretch themselves, and then they are ready for the day.
We rode out of the town in a long file. First went the groom-boy; I
forget his proper Syrian appellation, but we used to call him Mucherry,
that sound being in some sort like the name. Then followed the horse
with the forage and blankets, and next to him my friend Smith in the
Turkish saddle. I was behind him, and Joseph brought up the rear. We
moved slowly down the Via Dolorosa, noting the spot at which our Saviour
is said to have fallen while bearing his cross; we passed by Pilate’s
house, and paused at the gate of the Temple,--the gate which once was
beautiful,--looking down into the hole of the pool in which the maimed
and halt were healed whenever the waters moved. What names they are! And
yet there at Jerusalem they are bandied to and fro with as little
reverence as are the fanciful appellations given by guides to rocks and
stones and little lakes in all countries overrun by tourists.
“For those who would still fain believe,--let them stay at home,” said
my friend Smith.
“For those who cannot divide the wheat from the chaff, let _them_ stay
at home,” I answered. And then we rode out through St. Stephen’s gate,
having the mountain of the men of Galileo directly before us, and the
Mount of Olives a little to our right, and the Valley of Jehoshaphat
lying between us and it. “Of course you know all these places now?” said
Smith. I answered that I did know them well.
“And was it not better for you when you knew them only in Holy Writ?” he
asked.
“No, by Jove,” said I. “The mountains stand where they ever stood. The
same valleys are still green with the morning dew, and the water-courses
are unchanged. The children of Mahomet may build their tawdry temple on
the threshing-floor which David bought that there might stand the Lord’s
house. Man may undo what man did, even though the doer was Solomon. But
here we have God’s handiwork and His own evidences.”
At the bottom of the steep descent from the city gate we came to the
tomb of the Virgin; and by special agreement made with Joseph we left
our horses here for a few moments, in order that we might descend into
the subterranean chapel under the tomb, in which mass was at this moment
being said. There is something awful in that chapel, when, as at the
present moment, it is crowded with Eastern worshippers from the very
altar up to the top of the dark steps by which the descent is made. It
must be remembered that Eastern worshippers are not like the churchgoers
of London, or even of Rome or Cologne. They are wild men of various
nations and races,--Maronites from Lebanon, Roumelians, Candiotes, Copts
from Upper Egypt, Russians from the Crimea, Armenians and Abyssinians.
They savour strongly of Oriental life and of Oriental dirt. They are
clad in skins or hairy cloaks with huge hoods. Their heads are shaved,
and their faces covered with short, grisly, fierce beards. They are
silent mostly, looking out of their eyes ferociously, as though murder
were in their thoughts, and rapine. But they never slouch, or cringe in
their bodies, or shuffle in their gait. Dirty, fierce-looking, uncouth,
repellent as they are, there is always about them a something of
personal dignity which is not compatible with an Englishman’s ordinary
hat and pantaloons.
As we were about to descend, preparing to make our way through the
crowd, Smith took hold of my arm. “That will never do, my dear fellow,”
said I, “the job will be tough enough for a single file, but we should
never cut our way two and two. I’m broad-shouldered and will go first.”
So I did, and gradually we worked our way into the body of the chapel.
How is it that Englishmen can push themselves anywhere? These men were
fierce-looking, and had murder and rapine, as I have said, almost in
their eyes. One would have supposed that they were not lambs or doves,
capable of being thrust here or there without anger on their part; and
they, too, were all anxious to descend and approach the altar. Yet we
did win our way through them, and apparently no man was angry with us. I
doubt, after all, whether a ferocious eye and a strong smell and dirt
are so efficacious in creating awe and obedience in others, as an open
brow and traces of soap and water. I know this, at least,--that a dirty
Maronite would make very little progress, if he attempted to shove his
way unfairly through a crowd of Englishmen at the door of a London
theatre. We did shove unfairly, and we did make progress, till we found
ourselves in the centre of the dense crowd collected in the body of the
chapel.
Having got so far, our next object was to get out again. The place was
dark, mysterious, and full of strange odours; but darkness, mystery, and
strange odours soon lose their charms when men have much work before
them. Joseph had made a point of being allowed to attend mass before the
altar of the Virgin, but a very few minutes sufficed for his prayers. So
we again turned round and pushed our way back again, Smith still
following in my wake. The men who had let us pass once let us pass again
without opposition or show of anger. To them the occasion was very holy.
They were stretching out their hands in every direction, with long
tapers, in order that they might obtain a spark of the sacred fire which
was burning on one of the altars. As we made our way out we passed many
who, with dumb motions, begged us to assist them in their object. And we
did assist them, getting lights for their tapers, handing them to and
fro, and using the authority with which we seemed to be invested. But
Smith, I observed, was much more courteous in this way to the women than
to the men, as I did not forget to remind him when we were afterwards on
our road together.
Remounting our horses we rode slowly up the winding ascent of the Mount
of Olives, turning round at the brow of the hill to look back over
Jerusalem. Sometimes I think that of all spots in the world this one
should be the spot most cherished in the memory of Christians. It was
there that He stood when He wept over the city. So much we do know,
though we are ignorant, and ever shall be so, of the site of His cross
and of the tomb. And then we descended on the eastern side of the hill,
passing through Bethany, the town of Lazarus and his sisters, and turned
our faces steadily towards the mountains of Moab.
Hitherto we had met no Bedouins, and I interrogated my dragoman about
them more than once; but he always told me that it did not signify; we
should meet them, he said, before any danger could arise. “As for
danger,” said I, “I think more of this than I do of the Arabs,” and I
put my hand on my revolver. “But as they agreed to be here, here they
ought to be. Don’t you carry a revolver, Smith?”
Smith said that he never had done so, but that he would take the charge
of mine if I liked. To this, however, I demurred. “I never part with my
pistol to any one,” I said, rather drily. But he explained that he only
intended to signify that if there were danger to be encountered, he
would be glad to encounter it; and I fully believed him. “We shan’t
have much, fighting,” I replied; “but if there be any, the tool will
come readiest to the hand of its master. But if you mean to remain here
long I would advise you to get one. These Orientals are a people with
whom appearances go a long way, and, as a rule, fear and respect mean
the same thing with them. A pistol hanging over your loins is no great
trouble to you, and looks as though you could bite. Many a dog goes
through the world well by merely showing his teeth.”
And then my companion began to talk of himself. “He did not,” he said,
“mean to remain in Syria very long.”
“Nor I either,” said I. “I have done with this part of the world for the
present, and shall take the next steamer from Jaffa for Alexandria. I
shall only have one night in Jerusalem on my return.”
After this he remained silent for a few moments and then declared that
that also had been his intention. He was almost ashamed to say so,
however, because it looked as though he had resolved to hook himself on
to me. So he answered, expressing almost regret at the circumstance.
“Don’t let that trouble you,” said I; “I shall be delighted to have your
company. When you know me better, as I hope you will do, you will find
that if such were not the case I should tell you so as frankly. I shall
remain in Cairo some little time; so that beyond our arrival in Egypt, I
can answer for nothing.”
He said that he expected letters at Alexandria which would govern his
future movements. I thought he seemed sad as he said so, and imagined,
from his manner, that he did not expect very happy tidings. Indeed I had
made up my mind that he was by no means free from care or sorrow. He had
not the air of a man who could say of himself that he was “totus teres
atque rotundus.” But I had no wish to inquire, and the matter would have
dropped had he not himself added--“I fear that I shall meet
acquaintances in Egypt whom it will give me no pleasure to see.”
“Then,” said I, “if I were you, I would go to Constantinople
instead;--indeed, anywhere rather than fall among friends who are not
friendly. And the nearer the friend is, the more one feels that sort of
thing. To my way of thinking, there is nothing on earth so pleasant as a
pleasant wife; but then, what is there so damnable as one that is
unpleasant?”
“Are you a married man?” he inquired. All his questions were put in a
low tone of voice which seemed to give to them an air of special
interest, and made one almost feel that they were asked with some
special view to one’s individual welfare. Now the fact is, that I am a
married man with a family; but I am not much given to talk to strangers
about my domestic concerns, and, therefore, though I had no particular
object in view, I denied my obligations in this respect. “No,” said I;
“I have not come to that promotion yet. I am too frequently on the move
to write myself down as Paterfamilias.”
“Then you know nothing about that pleasantness of which you spoke just
now?”
“Nor of the unpleasantness, thank God; my personal experiences are all
to come,--as also are yours, I presume?”
It was possible that he had hampered himself with some woman, and that
she was to meet him at Alexandria. Poor fellow! thought I. But his
unhappiness was not of that kind. “No,” said he; “I am not married; I am
all alone in the world.”
“Then I certainly would not allow myself to be troubled by unpleasant
acquaintances.”
It was now four hours since we had left Jerusalem, and we had arrived at
the place at which it was proposed that we should breakfast. There was a
large well there, and shade afforded by a rock under which the water
sprung; and the Arabs had constructed a tank out of which the horses
could drink, so that the place was ordinarily known as the first stage
out of Jerusalem.
Smith had said not a word about his saddle, or complained in any way of
discomfort, so that I had in truth forgotten the subject. Other matters
had continually presented themselves, and I had never even asked him how
he had fared. I now jumped from my horse, but I perceived at once that
he was unable to do so. He smiled faintly, as his eye caught mine, but I
knew that he wanted assistance. “Ah,” said I, “that confounded Turkish
saddle has already galled your skin. I see how it is; I shall have to
doctor you with a little brandy,--externally applied, my friend.” But I
lent him my shoulder, and with that assistance he got down, very gently
and slowly.
“We ate our breakfast with a good will; bread and cold fowl and
brandy-and-water, with a hard-boiled egg by way of a final delicacy; and
then I began to bargain with Joseph for the loan of his English saddle.
I saw that Smith could not get through the journey with that monstrous
Turkish affair, and that he would go on without complaining till he
fainted or came to some other signal grief. But the Frenchman, seeing
the plight in which we were, was disposed to drive a very hard bargain.
He wanted forty shillings, the price of a pair of live Bedouins, for the
accommodation, and declared that, even then, he should make the
sacrifice only out of consideration to me.
“Very well,” said I. “I’m tolerably tough myself, and I’ll change with
the gentleman. The chances are that I shall not be in a very liberal
humour when I reach Jaffa with stiff limbs and a sore skin. I have a
very good memory, Joseph.”
“I’ll take thirty shillings, Mr. Jones; though I shall have to groan all
the way like a condemned devil.”
I struck a bargain with him at last for five-and-twenty, and set him to
work to make the necessary change on the horses. “It will be just the
same thing to him,” I said to Smith. “I find that he is as much used to
one as to the other.
“But how much money are you to pay him?” he asked. “Oh, nothing,” I
replied. “Give him a few piastres when you part with him at Jaffa.” I do
not know why I should have felt thus inclined to pay money out of my
pocket for this Smith,--a man whom I had only seen for the first time on
the preceding evening, and whose temperament was so essentially
different from my own; but so I did. I would have done almost anything
in reason for his comfort; and yet he was a melancholy fellow, with good
inward pluck as I believed, but without that outward show of dash and
hardihood which I confess I love to see. “Pray tell him that I’ll pay
him for it,” said he. “We’ll make that all right,” I answered; and then
we remounted,--not without some difficulty on his part. “You should have
let me rub in that brandy,” I said. “You can’t conceive how
efficaciously I would have done it.” But he made me no answer.
At noon we met a caravan of pilgrims coming up from Jordan. There might
be some three or four hundred, but the number seemed to be treble that,
from the loose and straggling line in which they journeyed. It was a
very singular sight, as they moved slowly along the narrow path through
the sand, coming out of a defile among the hills, which was perhaps a
quarter of a mile in front of us, passing us as we stood still by the
wayside, and then winding again out of sight on the track over which we
had come. Some rode on camels,--a whole family, in many cases, being
perched on the same animal. I observed a very old man and a very old
woman slung in panniers over a camel’s back,--not such panniers as might
be befitting such a purpose, but square baskets, so that the heads and
heels of each of the old couple hung out of the rear and front. “Surely
the journey will be their death,” I said to Joseph. “Yes it will,” he
replied, quite coolly; “but what matter how soon they die now that they
have bathed in Jordan?” Very many rode on donkeys; two, generally, on
each donkey; others, who had command of money, on horses; but the
greater number walked, toiling painfully from Jerusalem to Jericho on
the first day, sleeping there in tents and going to bathe on the second
day, and then returning from Jericho to Jerusalem on the third. The
pilgrimage is made throughout in accordance with fixed rules, and there
is a tariff for the tent accommodation at Jericho,--so much per head per
night, including the use of hot water.
Standing there, close by the wayside, we could see not only the garments
and faces of these strange people, but we could watch their gestures and
form some opinion of what was going on within their thoughts. They were
much quieter,--tamer, as it were,--than Englishmen would be under such
circumstances. Those who were carried seemed to sit on their beasts in
passive tranquillity, neither enjoying nor suffering anything. Their
object had been to wash in Jordan,--to do that once in their lives;--and
they had washed in Jordan. The benefit expected was not to be
immediately spiritual. No earnest prayerfulness was considered necessary
after the ceremony. To these members of the Greek Christian Church it
had been handed down from father to son that washing in Jordan once
during life was efficacious towards salvation. And therefore the journey
had been made at terrible cost and terrible risk; for these people had
come from afar, and were from their habits but little capable of long
journeys. Many die under the toil; but this matters not if they do not
die before they have reached Jordan. Some few there are, undoubtedly,
more ecstatic in this great deed of their religion. One man I especially
noticed on this day. He had bound himself to make the pilgrimage from
Jerusalem to the river with one foot bare. He was of a better class, and
was even nobly dressed, as though it were a part of his vow to show to
all men that he did this deed, wealthy and great though he was. He was a
fine man, perhaps thirty years of age, with a well-grown beard
descending on his breast, and at his girdle he carried a brace of
pistols. But never in my life had I seen bodily pain so plainly written
in a man’s face. The sweat was falling from his brow, and his eyes were
strained and bloodshot with agony. He had no stick, his vow, I presume,
debarring him from such assistance, and he limped along, putting to the
ground the heel of the unprotected foot. I could see it, and it was a
mass of blood, and sores, and broken skin. An Irish girl would walk from
Jerusalem to Jericho without shoes, and be not a penny the worse for it.
This poor fellow clearly suffered so much that I was almost inclined to
think that in the performance of his penance he had done something to
aggravate his pain. Those around him paid no attention to him, and the
dragoman seemed to think nothing of the affair whatever. “Those fools of
Greeks do not understand the Christian religion,” he said, being himself
a Latin or Roman Catholic.
At the tail of the line we encountered two Bedouins, who were in charge
of the caravan, and Joseph at once addressed them. The men were mounted,
one on a very sorry-looking jade, but the other on a good stout Arab
barb. They had guns slung behind their backs, coloured handkerchiefs on
their heads, and they wore the striped bernouse. The parley went on for
about ten minutes, during which the procession of pilgrims wound out of
sight; and it ended in our being accompanied by the two Arabs, who thus
left their greater charge to take care of itself back to the city. I
understood afterwards that they had endeavoured to persuade Joseph that
we might just as well go on alone, merely satisfying the demand of the
tariff. But he had pointed out that I was a particular man, and that
under such circumstances the final settlement might be doubtful. So they
turned and accompanied us; but, as a matter of fact, we should have been
as well without them.
The sun was beginning to fall in the heavens when we reached the actual
margin of the Dead Sea. We had seen the glitter of its still waters for
a long time previously, shining under the sun as though it were not
real. We have often heard, and some of us have seen, how effects of
light and shade together will produce so vivid an appearance of water
where there is no water, as to deceive the most experienced. But the
reverse was the case here. There was the lake, and there it had been
before our eyes for the last two hours; and yet it looked, then and now,
as though it were an image of a lake, and not real water. I had long
since made up my mind to bathe in it, feeling well convinced that I
could do so without harm to myself, and I had been endeavouring to
persuade Smith to accompany me; but he positively refused. He would
bathe, he said, neither in the Dead Sea nor in the river Jordan. He did
not like bathing, and preferred to do his washing in his own room. Of
course I had nothing further to say, and begged that, under these
circumstances, he would take charge of my purse and pistols while I was
in the water. This he agreed to do; but even in this he was strange and
almost uncivil. I was to bathe from the farthest point of a little
island, into which there was a rough causeway from the land made of
stones and broken pieces of wood, and I exhorted him to go with me
thither; but he insisted on remaining with his horse on the mainland at
some little distance from the island. He did not feel inclined to go
down to the water’s edge, he said.
I confess that at this moment I almost suspected that he was going to
play me foul, and I hesitated. He saw in an instant what was passing
through my mind. “You had better take your pistol and money with you;
they will be quite safe on your clothes.” But to have kept the things
now would have shown suspicion too plainly, and as I could not bring
myself to do that, I gave them up. I have sometimes thought that I was a
fool to do so.