is impossible to conceive anything more desolate than the appearance of
the place. The land shelves very gradually away to the water, and the
whole margin, to the breadth of some twenty or thirty feet, is strewn
with the débris of rushes, bits of timber, and old white withered reeds.
Whence these bits of timber have come it seems difficult to say. The
appearance is as though the water had receded and left them there. I
have heard it said that there is no vegetation near the Dead Sea; but
such is not the case, for these rushes do grow on the bank. I found it
difficult enough to get into the water, for the ground shelves down very
slowly, and is rough with stones and large pieces of half-rotten wood;
moreover, when I was in nearly up to my hips the water knocked me down;
indeed, it did so when I had gone as far as my knees, but I recovered
myself, and by perseverance did proceed somewhat farther. It must not be
imagined that this knocking down was effected by the movement of the
water. There is no such movement. Everything is perfectly still, and the
fluid seems hardly to be displaced by the entrance of the body; but the
effect is that one’s feet are tripped up, and that one falls prostrate
on to the surface. The water is so strong and buoyant, that, when above
a few feet in depth has to be encountered, the strength and weight of
the bather are not sufficient to keep down his feet and legs. I then
essayed to swim; but I could not do this in the ordinary way, as I was
unable to keep enough of my body below the surface; so that my head and
face seemed to be propelled down upon it. I turned round and floated,
but the glare of the sun was so powerful that I could not remain long in
that position. However, I had bathed in the Dead Sea, and was so far
satisfied.
Anything more abominable to the palate than this water, if it be water,
I never had inside my mouth. I expected it to be extremely salt, and no
doubt, if it were analysed, such would be the result; but there is a
flavour in it which kills the salt. No attempt can be made at describing
this taste. It may be imagined that I did not drink heartily, merely
taking up a drop or two with my tongue from the palm of my hand; but it
seemed to me as though I had been drenched with it. Even brandy would
not relieve me from it. And then my whole body was in a mess, and I felt
as though I had been rubbed with pitch. Looking at my limbs, I saw no
sign on them of the fluid. They seemed to dry from this as they usually
do from any other water; but still the feeling remained. However, I was
to ride from hence to a spot on the banks of Jordan, which I should
reach in an hour, and at which I would wash; so I clothed myself, and
prepared for my departure.
Seated in my position in the island I was unable to see what was going
on among the remainder of the party, and therefore could not tell
whether my pistols and money was safe. I dressed, therefore, rather
hurriedly, and on getting again to the shore, found that Mr. John Smith
had not levanted. He was seated on his horse at some distance from
Joseph and the Arabs, and had no appearance of being in league with
those, no doubt, worthy guides. I certainly had suspected a ruse, and
now was angry with myself that I had done so; and yet, in London, one
would not trust one’s money to a stranger whom one had met twenty-four
hours since in a coffee-room! Why, then, do it with a stranger whom one
chanced to meet in a desert?
“Thanks,” I said, as he handed me my belongings. “I wish I could have
induced you to come in also. The Dead Sea is now at your elbow, and,
therefore, you think nothing of it; but in ten or fifteen years’ time,
you would be glad to be able to tell your children that you had bathed
in it.”
“I shall never have any children to care for such tidings,” he replied.
The river Jordan, for some miles above the point at which it joins the
Dead Sea, runs through very steep banks,--banks which are almost
precipitous,--and is, as it were, guarded by the thick trees and bushes
which grow upon its sides. This is so much the case, that one may ride,
as we did, for a considerable distance along the margin, and not be
able even to approach the water. I had a fancy for bathing in some spot
of my own selection, instead of going to the open shore frequented by
all the pilgrims; but I was baffled in this. When I did force my way
down to the river side, I found that the water ran so rapidly, and that
the bushes and boughs of trees grew so far over and into the stream, as
to make it impossible for me to bathe. I could not have got in without
my clothes, and having got in, I could not have got out again. I was,
therefore obliged to put up with the open muddy shore to which the
bathers descend, and at which we may presume that Joshua passed when he
came over as one of the twelve spies to spy out the land. And even here
I could not go full into the stream as I would fain have done, lest I
should be carried down, and so have assisted to whiten the shores of the
Dead Sea with my bones. As to getting over to the Moabitish side of the
river, that was plainly impossible; and, indeed, it seemed to be the
prevailing opinion that the passage of the river was not practicable
without going up as far as Samaria. And yet we know that there, or
thereabouts, the Israelites did cross it.
I jumped from my horse the moment I got to the place, and once more gave
my purse and pistols to my friend. “You are going to bathe again?” he
said. “Certainly,” said I; “you don’t suppose that I would come to
Jordan and not wash there, even if I were not foul with the foulness of
the Dead Sea!” “You’ll kill yourself, in your present state of heat;” he
said, remonstrating just as one’s mother or wife might do. But even had
it been my mother or wife I could not have attended to such remonstrance
then; and before he had done looking at me with those big eyes of his,
my coat and waistcoat and cravat were on the ground, and I was at work
at my braces; whereupon he turned from me slowly, and strolled away into
the wood. On this occasion I had no base fears about my money.
And then I did bathe,--very uncomfortably. The shore was muddy with the
feet of the pilgrims, and the river so rapid that I hardly dared to get
beyond the mud. I did manage to take a plunge in, head-foremost, but I
was forced to wade out through the dirt and slush, so that I found it
difficult to make my feet and legs clean enough for my shoes and
stockings; and then, moreover, the flies plagued me most unmercifully. I
should have thought that the filthy flavour from the Dead Sea would have
saved me from that nuisance; but the mosquitoes thereabouts are probably
used to it. Finding this process of bathing to be so difficult, I
inquired as to the practice of the pilgrims. I found that with them,
bathing in Jordan has come to be much the same as baptism has with us.
It does not mean immersion. No doubt they do take off their shoes and
stockings; but they do not strip, and go bodily into the water.
As soon as I was dressed I found that Smith was again at my side with
purse and pistols. We then went up a little above the wood, and sat down
together on the long sandy grass. It was now quite evening, so that the
short Syrian twilight had commenced, and the sun was no longer hot in
the heavens. It would be night as we rode on to the tents at Jericho;
but there was no difficulty as to the way, and therefore we did not
hurry the horses, who were feeding on the grass. We sat down together on
a spot from which we could see the stream,--close together, so that when
I stretched myself out in my weariness, as I did before we started, my
head rested on his legs. Ah, me! one does not take such liberties with
new friends in England. It was a place which led one on to some special
thoughts. The mountains of Moab were before us, very plain in their
outline. “Moab is my wash-pot, and over Edom will I cast out my shoe!”
There they were before us, very visible to the eye, and we began
naturally to ask questions of each other. Why was Moab the wash-pot, and
Edom thus cursed with indignity? Why had the right bank of the river
been selected for such great purposes, whereas the left was thus
condemned? Was there, at that time, any special fertility in this land
of promise which has since departed from it? We are told of a bunch of
grapes which took two men to carry it; but now there is not a vine in
the whole country side. Now-a-days the sandy plain round Jericho is as
dry and arid as are any of the valleys of Moab. The Jordan was running
beneath our feet,--the Jordan in which the leprous king had washed,
though the bright rivers of his own Damascus were so much nearer to his
hand. It was but a humble stream to which he was sent; but the spot
probably was higher up, above the Sea of Galilee, where the river is
narrow. But another also had come down to this river, perhaps to this
very spot on its shores, and submitted Himself to its waters;--as to
whom, perhaps, it will be better that I should not speak much in this
light story.
The Dead Sea was on our right, still glittering in the distance, and
behind us lay the plains of Jericho and the wretched collection of huts
which still bears the name of the ancient city. Beyond that, but still
seemingly within easy distance of us, were the mountains of the
wilderness. The wilderness! In truth, the spot was one which did lead to
many thoughts.
We talked of these things, as to many of which I found that my friend
was much more free in his doubts and questionings than myself; and then
our words came back to ourselves, the natural centre of all men’s
thoughts and words. “From what you say,” I said, “I gather that you have
had enough of this land?”
“Quite enough,” he said. “Why seek such spots as these, if they only
dispel the associations and veneration of one’s childhood?”
“But with me such associations and veneration are riveted the stronger
by seeing the places, and putting my hand upon the spots. I do not speak
of that fictitious marble slab up there; but here, among the sandhills
by this river, and at the Mount of Olives over which we passed, I do
believe.”
He paused a moment, and then replied: “To me it is all
nothing,--absolutely nothing. But then do we not know that our thoughts
are formed, and our beliefs modelled, not on the outward signs or
intrinsic evidences of things,--as would be the case were we always
rational,--but by the inner workings of the mind itself? At the present
turn of my life I can believe in nothing that is gracious.”
“Ah, you mean that you are unhappy. You have come to grief in some of
your doings or belongings, and therefore find that all things are bitter
to the taste. I have had my palate out of order too; but the proper
appreciation of flavours has come back to me. Bah,--how noisome was that
Dead Sea water!”
“The Dead Sea waters are noisome,” he said; “and I have been drinking of
them by long draughts.”
“Long draughts!” I answered, thinking to console him. “Draughts have not
been long which can have been swallowed in your years. Your disease may
be acute, but it cannot yet have become chronic. A man always thinks at
the moment of each misfortune that that special misery will last his
lifetime; but God is too good for that. I do not know what ails you; but
this day twelvemonth will see you again as sound as a roach.”
“We then sat silent for a while, during which I was puffing at a cigar.
Smith, among his accomplishments, did not reckon that of smoking,--which
was a grief to me; for a man enjoys the tobacco doubly when another is
enjoying it with him.
“No, you do not know what ails me,” he said at last, “and, therefore,
cannot judge.”
“Perhaps not, my dear fellow. But my experience tells me that early
wounds are generally capable of cure; and, therefore, I surmise that
yours may be so. The heart at your time of life is not worn out, and has
strength and soundness left wherewith to throw off its maladies. I hope
it may be so with you.”
“God knows. I do not mean to say that there are none more to be pitied
than I am; but at the present moment, I am not--not light-hearted.”
“I wish I could ease your burden, my dear fellow.”
“It is most preposterous in me thus to force myself upon you, and then
trouble you with my cares. But I had been alone so long, and I was so
weary of it!”
“By Jove, and so had I. Make no apology. And let me tell you
this,--though perhaps you will not credit me,--that I would sooner laugh
with a comrade than cry with him is true enough; but, if occasion
demands, I can do the latter also.”
He then put out his hand to me, and I pressed it in token of my
friendship. My own hand was hot and rough with the heat and sand; but
his was soft and cool almost as a woman’s. I thoroughly hate an
effeminate man; but, in spite of a certain womanly softness about this
fellow, I could not hate him. “Yes,” I continued, “though somewhat
unused to the melting mood, I also sometimes give forth my medicinal
gums. I don’t want to ask you any questions, and, as a rule, I hate to
be told secrets, but if I can be of any service to you in any matter I
will do my best. I don’t say this with reference to the present moment,
but think of it before we part.”
I looked round at him and saw that he was in tears. “I know that you
will think that I am a weak fool,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to
his eyes.
“By no means. There are moments in a man’s life when it becomes him to
weep like a woman; but the older he grows the more seldom those moments
come to him. As far as I can see of men, they never cry at that which
disgraces them.”
“It is left for women to do that,” he answered.
“Oh, women! A woman cries for everything and for nothing. It is the
sharpest arrow she has in her quiver,--the best card in her hand. When a
woman cries, what can you do but give her all she asks for?”
“Do you--dislike women?”
“No, by Jove! I am never really happy unless one is near me, or more
than one. A man, as a rule, has an amount of energy within him which he
cannot turn to profit on himself alone. It is good for him to have a
woman by him that he may work for her, and thus have exercise for his
limbs and faculties. I am very fond of women. But I always like those
best who are most helpless.”
We were silent again for a while, and it was during this time that I
found myself lying with my head in his lap. I had slept, but it could
have been but for a few minutes, and when I woke I found his hand upon
my brow. As I started up he said that the flies had been annoying me,
and that he had not chosen to waken me as I seemed weary. “It has been
that double bathing,” I said, apologetically; for I always feel ashamed
when I am detected sleeping in the day. “In hot weather the water does
make one drowsy. By Jove, it’s getting dark; we had better have the
horses.”
“Stay half a moment,” he said, speaking very softly, and laying his hand
upon my arm, “I will not detain you a minute.”
“There is no hurry in life,” I said.
“You promised me just now you would assist me.”
“If it be in my power, I will.”
“Before we part at Alexandria I will endeavour to tell you you the story
of my troubles, and then if you can aid me----” It struck me as he
paused that I had made a rash promise, but nevertheless I must stand by
it now--with one or two provisoes. The chances were that the young man
was short of money, or else that he had got into a scrape about a girl.
In either case I might give him some slight assistance; but, then, it
behoved me to make him understand that I would not consent to become a
participator in mischief. I was too old to get my head willingly into a
scrape, and this I must endeavour to make him understand.
“I will, if it be in my power,” I said. “I will ask no questions now;
but if your trouble be about some lady----”
“It is not,” said he.
“Well; so be it. Of all troubles those are the most troublesome. If you
are short of cash----”
“No, I am not short of cash.”
“You are not. That’s well too; for want of money is a sore trouble
also.” And then I paused before I came to the point. “I do not suspect
anything bad of you, Smith. Had I done so, I should not have spoken as I
have done. And if there be nothing bad----”
“There is nothing disgraceful,” he said.
“That is just what I mean; and in that case I will do anything for you
that may be within my power. Now let us look for Joseph and the
mucherry-boy, for it is time that we were at Jericho.”
I cannot describe at length the whole of our journey from thence to our
tents at Jericho, nor back to Jerusalem, nor even from Jerusalem to
Jaffa. At Jericho we did sleep in tents, paying so much per night,
according to the tariff. We wandered out at night, and drank coffee with
a family of Arabs in the desert, sitting in a ring round their
coffee-kettle. And we saw a Turkish soldier punished with the
bastinado,--a sight which did not do me any good, and which made Smith
very sick. Indeed after the first blow he walked away. Jericho is a
remarkable spot in that pilgrim week, and I wish I had space to describe
it. But I have not, for I must hurry on, back to Jerusalem and thence to
Jaffa. I had much to tell also of those Bedouins; how they were
essentially true to us, but teased us almost to frenzy by their
continual begging. They begged for our food and our drink, for our
cigars and our gunpowder, for the clothes off our backs, and the
handkerchiefs out of our pockets. As to gunpowder I had none to give
them, for my charges were all made up in cartridges; and I learned that
the guns behind their backs were a mere pretence, for they had not a
grain of powder among them.
We slept one night in Jerusalem, and started early on the following
morning. Smith came to my hotel so that we might be ready together for
the move. We still carried with us Joseph and the mucherry-boy; but for
our Bedouins, who had duly received their forty shillings a piece, we
had no further use. On our road down to Jerusalem we had much chat
together, but only one adventure. Those pilgrims, of whom I have spoken,
journey to Jerusalem in the greatest number by the route which we were
now taking from it, and they come in long droves, reaching Jaffa in
crowds by the French and Austrian steamers from Smyrna, Damascus, and
Constantinople. As their number confers security in that somewhat
insecure country, many travellers from the west of Europe make
arrangements to travel with them. On our way down we met the last of
these caravans for the year, and we were passing it for more than two
hours. On this occasion I rode first, and Smith was immediately behind
me; but of a sudden I observed him to wheel his horse round, and to
clamber downwards among bushes and stones towards a river that ran below
us. “Hallo, Smith,” I cried, “you will destroy your horse, and yourself
too.” But he would not answer me, and all I could do was to draw up in
the path and wait. My confusion was made the worse, as at that moment a
long string of pilgrims was passing by. “Good morning, sir,” said an old
man to me in good English. I looked up as I answered him, and saw a
grey-haired gentleman, of very solemn and sad aspect. He might be
seventy years of age, and I could see that he was attended by three or
four servants. I shall never forget the severe and sorrowful expression
of his eyes, over which his heavy eyebrows hung low. “Are there many
English in Jerusalem?” he asked. “A good many,” I replied; “there always
are at Easter.” “Can you tell me anything of any of them?” he asked.
“Not a word,” said I, for I knew no one; “but our consul can.” And then
we bowed to each other and he passed on.
I got off my horse and scrambled down on foot after Smith. I found him
gathering berries and bushes as though his very soul were mad with
botany; but as I had seen nothing of this in him before, I asked what
strange freak had taken him.
“You were talking to that old man,” he said.
“Well, yes, I was.”
“That is the relation of whom I have spoken to you.”
“The d---- he is!”
“And I would avoid him, if it be possible.”
I then learned that the old gentleman was his uncle. He had no living
father or mother, and he now supposed that his relative was going to
Jerusalem in quest of him. “If so,” said I, “you will undoubtedly give
him leg bail, unless the Austrian boat is more than ordinarily late. It
is as much as we shall do to catch it, and you may be half over Africa,
or far gone on your way to India, before he can be on your track again.”
“I will tell you all about it at Alexandria,” he replied; and then he
scrambled up again with his horse, and we went on. That night we slept
at the Armenian convent at Ramlath, or Ramath. This place is supposed to
stand on the site of Arimathea, and is marked as such in many of the
maps. The monks at this time of the year are very busy, as the pilgrims
all stay here for one night on their routes backwards and forwards, and
the place on such occasions is terribly crowded. On the night of our
visit it was nearly empty, as a caravan had left it that morning; and
thus we were indulged with separate cells, a point on which my companion
seemed to lay considerable stress.
On the following day, at about noon, we entered Jaffa, and put up at an
inn there which is kept by a Pole. The boat from Beyrout, which,
touches at Jaffa on its way to Alexandria, was not yet in, nor even
sighted; we were therefore amply in time. “Shall we sail to-night?” I
asked of the agent. “Yes, in all probability,” he replied. “If the
signal be seen before three we shall do so. If not, then not;” and so I
returned to the hotel.
Smith had involuntarily shown signs of fatigue during the journey, but
yet he had borne up well against it. I had never felt called on to grant
any extra indulgence as to time because the work was too much for him.
But now he was a good deal knocked up, and I was a little frightened,
fearing that I had over-driven him under the heat of the sun. I was
alarmed lest he should have fever, and proposed to send for the Jaffa
doctor. But this he utterly refused. He would shut himself for an hour
or two in his room, he said, and by that time he trusted the boat would
be in sight. It was clear to me that he was very anxious on the subject,
fearing that his uncle would be back upon his heels before he had
started.
I ordered a serious breakfast for myself, for with me, on such
occasions, my appetite demands more immediate attention than my limbs. I
also acknowledge that I become fatigued, and can lay myself at length
during such idle days and sleep from hour to hour; but the desire to do
so never comes till I have well eaten and drunken. A bottle of French
wine, three or four cutlets of goats’ flesh, an omelet made out of the
freshest eggs, and an enormous dish of oranges, was the banquet set
before me; and though I might have found fault with it in Paris or
London, I thought that it did well enough in Jaffa. My poor friend could
not join me, but had a cup of coffee in his room. “At any rate take a
little brandy in it,” I said to him, as I stood over his bed. “I could
not swallow it,” said he, looking at me with almost beseeching eyes.
“Beshrew the fellow,” I said to myself as I left him, carefully closing
the door, so that the sound should not shake him; “he is little better
than a woman, and yet I have become as fond of him as though he were my
brother.”
I went out at three, but up to that time the boat had not been
signalled. “And we shall not get out to-night?” “No, not to-night,” said
the agent. “And what time to-morrow?” “If she comes in this evening, you
will start by daylight. But they so manage her departure from Beyrout,
that she seldom is here in the evening.” “It will be noon to-morrow
then?” “Yes,” the man said, “noon to-morrow.” I calculated, however,
that the old gentleman could not possibly be on our track by that time.
He would not have reached Jerusalem till late in the day on which we saw
him, and it would take him some time to obtain tidings of his nephew.
But it might be possible that messengers sent by him should reach Jaffa
by four or five on the day after his arrival. That would be this very
day which we were now wasting at Jaffa. Having thus made my
calculations, I returned to Smith to give him such consolation as it
might be in my power to afford.
He seemed to be dreadfully afflicted by all this. “He will have traced
me to Jerusalem, and then again away; and will follow me immediately.”
“That is all very well,” I said; “but let even a young man do the best
he can, and he will not get from Jerusalem to Jaffa in less than twelve
hours. Your uncle is not a young man, and could not possibly do the
journey under two days.”
“But he will send. He will not mind what money he spends.”
“And if he does send, take off your hat to his messengers, and bid them
carry your complaints back. You are not a felon whom he can arrest.”
“No, he cannot arrest me; but, ah! you do not understand;” and then he
sat up on the bed, and seemed as though he were going to wring his hands
in despair.
I waited for some half hour in his room, thinking that he would tell me
this story of his. If he required that I should give him my aid in the
presence either of his uncle or of his uncle’s myrmidons, I must at any
rate know what was likely to be the dispute between them. But as he said
nothing I suggested that he should stroll out with me among the
orange-groves by which the town is surrounded. In answer to this he
looked up piteously into my face as though begging me to be merciful to
him. “You are strong,” said he, “and cannot understand what it is to
feel fatigue as I do.” And yet he had declared on commencing his journey
that he would not be found to complain? Nor had he complained by a
single word till after that encounter with his uncle. Nay, he had borne
up well till this news had reached us of the boat being late. I felt
convinced that if the boat were at this moment lying in the harbour all
that appearance of excessive weakness would soon vanish. What it was
that he feared I could not guess; but it was manifest to me that some
great terror almost overwhelmed him.
“My idea is,” said I,--and I suppose that I spoke with something less
of good-nature in my tone than I had assumed for the last day or two,
“that no man should, under any circumstances, be so afraid of another
man, as to tremble at his presence,--either at his presence or his
expected presence.”
“Ah, now you are angry with me; now you despise me!”