CHAPTER VIII

THE JORDAN VALLEY

"Jordan past"

Nothing during the rest of that day's ride contributed so much to our

entertainment as the conduct of the white baggage-horse. He was the pair

of Sadowi, and of very similar appearance, but had not been selected to

carry the Lady because he was, like most Arabs, and some Arab horses,

blind of one eye. It had not at first dawned upon him that his companion

had received promotion, but the fact had been lately revealed by some

accident, and had been working in his mind ever since. To-day things had

come to a climax, and he now perceived that not only had Sadowi escaped

from the hateful and galling pack-saddle—in itself a preposterous

load—not only had he a much lighter burden to carry, but he was giving

himself airs of superiority, and travelling, as a rule, the foremost of

the entire cavalcade. Such autocracy was not to be endured, and could

and should be put a stop to; if he reigned he should not reign alone.

The creature, a worthy and excellent baggage horse, doing his duty in

his own state of life, now became self-willed and persistent under the

overmastering influence of this dominant idea. We called him the

"majnoon," the name which the Arabs give to the half-crazy men,

generally derwishes, who wander about, living upon the alms of the

benevolent. He insisted on keeping up with his comrade. In spite of all

inconveniences occasioned by his imperfect sight, his clumsy burden, he

generally succeeded in remaining side by side with, or immediately

behind, the Lady. If driven back he would persistently push his way past

all the rest in turn, till he regained his position, loudly grunting

dissatisfaction and determination. As we descended to the plain, and the

broad caravan road allowed room for any number to ride abreast on the

wide sands, the horse most accustomed to go beside Sadowi made several

efforts to take up his usual position, always repulsed by the "majnoon."

Sadowi himself, who received an occasional push from the unwieldy heap

of baggage, especially when on the blind side of his companion, was not

wholly pleased with the arrangement; but whenever the Lady tried to give

a wider berth to her inconvenient attendant, the "majnoon" always

followed, discontentedly grunting at the extra strain of the additional

pace he compelled himself to assume.

We had become, by this time, exceedingly conscious of the change of

climate, which had occurred even since the morning, and much more so

since we left the Belka. The gorges had been hot and close, the sands of

the plain seemed to radiate heat, and the level rays of the sun, as we

rode westward, produced towards evening, that sense of brain fatigue

indescribable to those who do not know their effect in an Oriental

climate—to many far more exhausting than the direct heat and glare of

midday. The moment, however, that the great god sank to rest behind the

hills of Judæa, we luxuriated to the full in the wonderful beauty of the

brief twilight. Away to the east, almost without our perceiving it, the

purple hills arose once more to shut out from us that enchanted world of

which we had taken one brief glimpse. A distant flame, lurid against the

pearly sky, showed us that the charcoal-burners were still at work.

Wreaths of white mist lay in the hollows of the mountains; while the

clear mirror of the Dead Sea, stretching far as the eye could reach,

reflected the hills of Judæa, dark masses, looking across the wide plain

to the evening glow beyond. A single line, standing up like a needle

against the west, showed us the Russian tower on the Mount of Olives,

reminder of all that world of politics, and rivalry, and ambition, of

which for a few days we had so gladly lost sight. Even our old friend

the jujube-tree, _zizyphus_, was here again, reminding us that we were

once more in subtropical surroundings, and several times we had to stoop

to the horses' necks to avoid its unwelcome embraces.

It was some hours since we had met with anything human; but, as the

darkness gathered, the glare of camp fires broke out here and there,

among the bushes, and, far away, the lights of Jericho seemed to beckon

us to the repose we were beginning to need. Suddenly we came upon a

weird scene—an assembly of the black tents of the Bedu, a bright fire in

the midst. Quite a large number of men were gathered about the flaming

pile, some preparing supper, others tending the animals—horses, asses,

camels—tethered beside the tents or left free to wander in search of

food among the undergrowth of scrub. "Waiting to cross the Jordan

Bridge," it was whispered among us, together with a warning that we must

approach this Rubicon as silently as possible, lest we should provoke

the jealousy and rivalry of others less fortunate than ourselves, and

cause superfluous discussion, and delay—for even those who had fulfilled

the necessary conditions of a now practically unlimited quarantine,

might not cross the river after sunset.

We rode on silently to the water's edge, and drew rein while Khalil went

forward, barefoot, to secure the opening of the gates before we ventured

in the darkness upon the slippery and rotten planks. There was a

cautious knocking, a long, low-toned parley. Our mukari returned, and

there was more parley among our leaders, and a suggestion made of "a few

napoleons," emphatically negatived by the Professor. Khalil returned to

his conference, and came back with a request for papers. The

Arabic-speaking Sportsman, armed with a portentous sheaf of teskerys

(local passports) and permits, went forward, soon returning, for an

instant, to tell us to get off our horses, for the poor beasts, becoming

restless, were making too much noise. This, we felt, implied that we

must be resigned to further delay, and we stretched ourselves upon the

sand, each securely holding the tether of his own horse, which would

otherwise have been off in an instant in search of food; for their

supper hour was already past, and they had had nothing since yesterday.

Entertainment did not fail us. In the camp we had passed, the Bedu had

finished their supper, and were now amusing themselves about the camp

fire, which flared high, and showed every detail more clearly than

daylight. First there was dancing and singing, both of the kind which

seems to us so singularly uninspiring—the tunes moving over about four

notes, the dance of about, perhaps, as many steps, accompanied by shouts

and hand-clappings; men dancing with each other, of course, or rather

opposite to each other, each occasionally resting his hands upon his

neighbour's shoulders. When this amusement palled, each kilted his

kumbaz into his waistband as one has seen a Blue-coat School boy dispose

of his very similar garment for precisely the same amusement, of

playing—leapfrog! With long, bronzed limbs, clean cut as those of a

race-horse, with not a superfluous pound of flesh and not an ounce that

was not muscle, it was really exciting to see these children of the

desert vying with each other in the familiar game, after a fashion which

would be edifying at Eton or Harrow.

No; it was not amusement that lacked, it was water! It was nearly eight

hours since we had had those precious cups of tea at Ain es-Shech, and

what we had brought away with us was, for the most part, finished. One

member of the party, an especially thirsty soul, whose supply had long

been exhausted, looked with ever-increasing longing at the flask of the

absent Sportsman. It was one of those admirable aluminium flasks,

covered with felt, which kept the liquid exquisitely cool and sweet, and

it had been hanging all day at the saddle-bow, and must now be ice cold.

The very thought added to his sufferings, as the beauty of that luscious

apple on a hot Oriental noontide may have increased the longing of our

mother Eve. "Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink!" The

Jordan murmured sweetly at our feet, rippling gently, and shining silver

clear in the starlight; but the cholera about the Lake of Galilee,

whence came that tempting stream, was a real and mortal disease, and not

the "backsheesh cholera" prevalent elsewhere. But that flask! He knew it

to be half full—a fact which in itself showed that the Sportsman was not

in thirsty mood: no man who knew anything of thirst—thirst such as

this—thirst which made one indifferent to all else—would carry about

with him a supply of delicious, reviving nectar, medicine alike for body

and soul—a pint of ice-cold tea! No; it was absolutely certain that were

he here, that kindly Sportsman, he would press the gift upon him, insist

upon his acceptance. Here in the East are there any laws so binding, are

there any rules of honour, of generosity, so inflexible as those which

concern the question of water? The most niggardly will give, the most

selfish will share, the most churlish will not refuse. How long will

that worthy Sportsman tarry?

There was a slight, a very slight, rustle in the darkness; something

moved beside that treasured flask, truly "the cynosure of neighbouring

eyes"; there was the suppressed sound of the withdrawing of a cork, and

the whole of the precious liquid went down the throat of the younger

mukari! It was impossible to move, to speak; and if there be any test of

endurance worse than thirst it is that, under certain circumstances, of

compulsory self-suppression!

After that the return of this longed-for friend was a matter almost of

indifference, and the information he brought was but unimportant in the

presence of that mighty thirst. The guardians of the bridge returned our

papers, which they probably could not read; they knew nothing of the

Professor's special privileges, or considered them a mere pretext for

the avoidance of backsheesh; there was cholera in Kerak; who was to say

that we had not spent these ten days in Kerak?—quarantine was

compulsory; no one crossed the bridge after sunset; they were heartless,

relentless, immovable, deaf to explanation. The hasty return of some

Bedu, who had also striven to enter with a caravan of laden asses, and

who, probably having some personal reason for travelling at this hour,

would have no conscientious scruples in offering backsheesh, confirmed

the report of the guardians' inflexibility.

To pass the night, weary as we were, upon this dry sand, beside a cool,

murmuring stream, with waving branches overhead, would be no special

hardship. The camp fires about us would keep off the jackals, which were

answering each other's cries across the plain; we had blankets, we had

even food. Alas! however, we had no drink, and then, our poor

horses!—kind, patient servants that they were: to-day, at the end of, in

some respects, the hardest day's work of the whole expedition, for,

although they had done little climbing, their long twelve hours' steady

work had been endured in burning sun and without the refreshing breezes

of the Belka. The three baggage animals had not even had the relief of

nearly an hour's freedom from their burdens, such as the others had

enjoyed, during the long conference. And again, for ourselves, how were

we, some of us especially, to endure the continued thirst?

"Bonsoir, madame, bonsoir, messieurs! je regrette—je vous en prie—venez

prendre un peu de café chez nous—vous reposer un peu!"

This messenger of mercy was a charming young man, beautifully dressed,

smiling, debonnair, shaking hands with all of us in turn. In a few

minutes we had walked across the bridge; the tramp behind us of our

horses' feet was convincing that it was not all a dream; in a few

minutes more we were seated about the door of a comfortable tent,

carpets were under our feet, the Lady had an easy-chair, the men had

stools; the light of a lantern showed comfortable domesticity within; we

were drinking sherbet, we were revived with cognac, we were refreshed

with fruit, and the preparation of coffee was in rapid progress.

By degrees we understood what had happened. The wardens of the bridge,

after the fashion of subordinates "clothed in a little brief authority,"

had taken our affairs into their own hands, and turned a deaf ear to all

explanation. Somehow, however, the matter had finally come to the ears

of the superior officer, an important functionary, who at sunset, his

duty done, had retired to his tent at some little distance. The name of

the Professor, carried to intelligent ears, had had its immediate

effect—and here we were, relieved of all apprehension, and luxuriously

awaiting the moonrise for the accomplishment of our journey.

Nothing could exceed the kindness of our welcome. Our new friend

presented his card to each of us, and we in turn wrote down our names on

paper, that all might feel friendly and at home. We discussed common

acquaintances among the Jerusalem effendis, promised exchange of visits,

sympathised as to the monotony of a solitary existence on the banks of

the Jordan, and were interested in hearing—from a Moslem—that such

things were all very well for John the Baptist or Elijah, but now one's

ideas were different. When conversation failed we ate nuts, almonds,

delicious salted pistachios: an Arab, even in the wilderness of Judæa,

is certain to be not far from nuts. The spirit of hospitality was so

diffused that when the Lady was about to reject one she was unable to

crack in her fingers, the negro servant gently took it, cracked it with

his own gleaming teeth, and returned it to her.

He was one of those big negroes common in this country and known as

_haji_ (pilgrims), probably because they often arrive with the Mecca

caravan, or even come on their own account to the mosque at Jerusalem,

the secondary pilgrimage of the Moslem faith. They are employed as

guardians of property, much as, at home, we employ watch-dogs, and may

be seen everywhere, sitting at the doors of public buildings or at the

gates of enclosed spaces. If you wish to enter a courtyard you knock at

the door, and call out "Haj!" certain that a giant negro will appear

upon the scene. They are said to be extraordinarily faithful, allowing

themselves to be misused and beaten rather than depart from the strict

letter of the commands they have received from their employers. The

negro in question was clad in snow-white robes, and as he leaned up

against the door of the tent in the starlight, absolutely motionless

when not employed, the intense blackness of his countenance showing

between his white turban and white kumbaz, it was difficult to realise

that he was of ordinary humanity and not a picture in a fairy-tale book.

Presently the moon looked over the heights of the mountains of Moab,

just as last night she had arisen above the Jebel Osha, and, if only for

the sake of our famishing steeds, we felt we must not delay. Our host

insisted upon sending an escort with us, alleging the difficulty of

finding the way among those weird hills and along the trackless sands.

On being assured that our men were competent to conduct us he still most

courteously insisted, and finally a sufficient reason transpired which,

out of kindness, he had so far withheld. It appeared that soldiers were

secreted in the wilderness on the lookout for criminals, of some nature

not specified, who were expected to attempt to escape by night into the

border country at the south end of the Dead Sea, the city of refuge for

the desperate and lawless, and it was just possible we might have some

inconvenience.

We gratefully accepted his kindness, and took our leave. We had already

received a lesson in hospitality, now we were to have one in deportment.

We could not but feel that our own adieux were lacking in grace, in

gratitude, in dignity, when compared with those of our friend; so

gracious without _empressement_, so respectful without servility—in

short, so entirely all that is most attractive in the higher-class

Oriental. The Professor, who had learned much in the school of Bedu,

alone showed to advantage, and seemed to possess a courtesy not wholly

graceless and European.

Our next lesson was in horsemanship. Our escorting soldier was as nearly

ubiquitous as it was in the nature of man and horse to be. A distant

caravan of camels showed sharp against the sky. He had flashed up to

them, interrogated them, and was back, beating up our rear, and again in

front, indicating the track we were to pursue; for Khalil had abandoned

responsibility, and was frankly asleep on the top of a pile of baggage.

Even the "majnoon" had wearily desisted from his ambitions, and had

retired to the rear with his humbler companions.

If that strange world had seemed weird and visionary in the morning

twilight, it was even more so under the moon, where the silent sand

cities cast long shadows of a blackness so intense as to be comparable

only to those of electric light. Indeed, this Oriental moonlight has

nothing of that quality of softness—the half-revealing, half-concealing

gleams, to which we are accustomed in the West. It is hard, clear,

metallic. It is a peculiarity, perhaps, of this Syrian atmosphere that

outlines appear so sharp that they lose, apparently, in solidity; in

what artists call "the round," so that the distant view of Jerusalem,

for example, has the effect of stage scenery, of an absolute lack of

perspective, which makes it extraordinarily difficult to compare

distances. Tonight, for instance, when a vista between the sand hills

allowed us to perceive the village of Jericho, it seemed inconceivable

that we should not reach it in a few minutes, and yet it was already

after eleven o'clock before the splash of our horses' feet in the water,

told us that we were crossing the brook Cherith.

At this point our soldier disappeared, flashed out of sight—his kind

intention, as we soon found, being to arouse the haj, the solitary

occupant of the hotel, and apprise him of our arrival. We had not to

wait long before the gates were opened and the barking of the dogs

exchanged for a kindly welcome. They were old friends, degenerate

descendants of some far-away mastiff, and still more distant collie, who

had made _mésalliances_ with some son or daughter of the soil, and left

traces of another race, much as we trace the Crusader in the blue eyes

and fair hair, of which specimens remain, here and there, in almost

every village in Syria.

There was naturally no fire, and dreams of tea were destined to

disappointment; but there were other combinations obtainable where water

was good and abundant, from which we were not averse. Have we not, some

of us, drunk "Ben Nevis" on Mount Lebanon and "Talisker" in glens other

than those of Skye? We had food with us, though our friends'

hospitalities had left us little appetite, and we made no

complaint—having water and towels—that sheets were not forthcoming. All

that lacked, in this semi-tropical atmosphere, was a sweet-scented

breeze from off the Belka.

We rose somewhat sadly next morning, and compared our twilight start

with that of nine days ago—sad, not as so often happens, from any

consciousness of anticipations unfulfilled, of hopes disappointed, but

only because those golden days were now buried with the past.

We rested for some time at the Good Samaritan Inn, and wrote some

picture postcards, to be stamped—strange anachronism—with the postmark

_Bon Samaritain_! Perhaps twopence was a large sum in New Testament

days, or it may be that good man had a long bill when he "came again";

or, still more likely, the progress of civilisation and of religion has

relegated hospitality and trustworthiness to the ignorant and savage

Bedu. Anyway, the shilling demanded seemed to us a good deal to pay for

a cup of tea and a biscuit.

We had no further adventure, and stopped but once, to photograph the

stone which Abraham brought on his back from some distant

place—variously stated as Hebron and Damascus. Whoever shall place his

back under that stone will be reinforced for carrying his own especial

burden. We looked back now with a sense of familiar friendship at those

grey hills, which had so lately been among the limitations of life, with

a realisation of widened knowledge and added sympathies, which, on our

return to the commonplace burdens of every day, should move us to

thankfulness and not to regret. Each evening now the sunset glow would

seem to smile to us from the faces of old friends, telling of a country

beyond—fairer, purer, it may be, than ours, but in its friendships, its

loves, its presentation of the beautiful, not very different from this.

We reached home in time for luncheon, and it is fair to record that the

"majnoon," grunting and breathless, was in at the death.

IN GALILEE AND SAMARIA

CHAPTER I

TO NABLUS

"And then men go to Shiloh, where the ark of God with the relics were

long kept ... and after men go to Shechem, formerly called Sichar ...

and there is a fair and good city, called Neapolis, whence it is a

day's journey to Jerusalem."

SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILLE, 1322

Those who have undertaken the education of the tourist have instilled

into him, among other irresponsible statements, the superstition that

one can travel in the Holy Land only during the three spring months of

the year, thus leaving the far more agreeable season from September to

March for the delectation of the serious student. This conviction, and

the absence from our party of pith helmets, white umbrellas, hats

invested with floating veils, blue spectacles, superfluous luggage,

broken-kneed horses, dragomans, and other impediments to comfort and

convenience, made possible the unsportsmanlike start which otherwise

might have caused a careless observer to mistake us for the "Personally

Conducted."

To drive in a carriage as far as El Bireh, sending our horses in

advance, was however a venial sin; for the ride to Nablûs was before us,

the first three or four hours being along a highroad of very moderate

interest; and, at best, we could not hope to get in before nightfall, in

spite of our start at six o'clock on a December morning.

We were a very attenuated party—only the Lady and the Doctor remaining

of our former group. We were reinforced, however, by the Artist, a lady

whose saddle-bags were weighty with cameras and sketching-blocks; and by

another learned doctor, who, on account of his association with a

celebrated guide-book, we designated "Baedeker." Sitting in a carriage

is not inspiriting, and even the sight of the Holy City in the sunrise,

viewed from Mount Scopas, as purple in the morning as it is pink in the

evening, failed to arouse our conversational powers. The tribe of

Benjamin welcomed us coldly on the broad plain assigned to it, and we

could think only with some dejection, of the bygone days when this

plucky little people could afford to lose twenty-five thousand men in a

single battle (Judges xx.), and when the six hundred who held out on

yonder hill of Ramah, repudiated by all their neighbours, possessed

themselves of wives in the good old Sabine fashion, and made a fresh

start in their frontier colony. Fifteen Moslem families now inherit the

traditions of former glory; and, indeed, the population hereabouts is

very thinly scattered. It is whispered that some of the villages have so

evil a reputation that the neighbouring districts now, as two or three

thousand years ago, are wont to say: "There shall not any of us give his

daughter unto Benjamin to wife"—the women already established there not

being desirable associates for those otherwise brought up.

At El Bireh our vehicle drew up in front of the khan or village inn,

where there is a good deal of accommodation for horses, and a single

small room for man. There we breakfasted, while our steeds were

collected and our saddle-bags dispersed. We had no baggage-horses, and

had all our personal belongings, as well as fodder for the beasts, to

distribute as best we could, so that we were unable to accede to the

characteristically Oriental request of a Greek priest that we would

relieve him and his horse of a part of their burden. We had been at El

Bireh before, and so did not linger to see the ruins of the very fine

Church and Hospice of the Knights of St John, which testify to its

former renown. The church, which is of the same ground-plan as that of

St Anne at Jerusalem and that of St Cleophas at Qoubeibeh (probably

Emmaus), had three naves, terminating in a triapsidal chancel. It was

rebuilt by the Crusaders, who had here a fortress and stronghold. The

tradition which it commemorates, is that it was here, a day's journey

from Jerusalem, that the child Jesus was missed by His parents, who

returned to seek Him. There is also a further tradition that it was here

that, seated under a palm-tree, the prophetess Deborah judged Israel.

The palm-trees remain, with many other signs of the fertility produced

by the presence of an excellent spring.

No horses were visible, although we were assured that they had left

Jerusalem at two o'clock—a statement we ventured to doubt when they were

at length produced, still perspiring, and obviously over-driven. The

Arab has little idea of time, and, indeed, Khalil's sense of veracity

never permits him to make a promise more definite than: _Iumkin

inshallah_—"Perhaps, if God will"; and his idea of futurity is limited

to _bookra_ or _ba'ad bookra_—literally, "to-morrow," or "after

to-morrow," but used as equivalent to "by-and-bye," near or remote. The

Arab has no compunction in keeping you waiting; but is equally

indifferent to losing time himself, and cheerfully sits down on your

doorstep until you are ready to give him attention. "Baedeker," much

experienced, had carefully selected his own saddle and bridle, sound

ones, the pride of their owner, who had naturally reserved them for the

decoration of his stables, and had sent the usual aggregation of

unrelated straps, patched leather, and rotten string. Our friend had a

fluent command of Arabic and some half-dozen other languages, and he

expressed his views on the manners and customs of the country at

considerable length to Abdallah, who was no further moved than to

ejaculate: _Ana baraf? Allah baraf_—"Do I know? God knows" when his

patron's breath was exhausted, and to pass the palm of his left hand

over the back of his right, the palm of his right over the back of his

left, in testimony of his personal innocence and irresponsibility.

The Lady was, of course, faithful to her old friend Sadowi; but the

horses all knew the Nablûs road, and, having no desire to better their

acquaintance, professed disinclination in various forms. Somewhere about

1900 it was decided to make a road between the capitals of Judæa and

Samaria—Jerusalem and Nablûs—and all the beasts of both towns are well

aware of the undertaking, which has been finished only as far as El

Bireh, the remainder, some nine hours' journey, being in various stages

of that incompleteness which is so infinitely more discouraging than no

road at all. As, however, we could see for some miles ahead of us what

bore the aspect of a _Sultaniyeh_, the Turkish equivalent for the king's

highway, some of us weakly proposed to take the carriage farther. This,

however, we found impossible, as the road at present is only to be

looked at—a wise provision, as we later discovered.

At Beitin, about half-an-hour farther, we passed from the territory of

Benjamin to that of Ephraim, from Judæa into Samaria, from the arid and

treeless Jerusalem district into the verdure, the colour, the obviously

greater prosperity which one finds anywhere else. Surely every traveller

who permits himself to think, unfettered by conventionality and

tradition, must continually ask himself why the Jewish people should

have taken for their capital a site which, however "beautiful for

situation," was, from the point of view of milk and honey, of vineyards

and olive-yards, of corn and wine, inferior to almost any other in

Palestine; where water must always have been scarce, and the hillsides

bare, though, undoubtedly, less arid and desolate than now; where the

winter winds and the summer siroccos were more pitiless than anywhere

else; where the soil was shallow, and the season of possible cultivation

short. So long as one is in the Holy City, under the spell of its

influences, of its associations, sacred and profane, its interests,

literary and archæological, its Babel of tongues, its cosmopolitan

population, its immigrants from every corner of the world, so long as

one hears the music of its place-names, as one feels the enchantment of

its moonlight, sunlight, starlight, of its colouring, of its life—so

long is one prepared to echo the vauntings of the Psalmist and the

prophets; but one has only to visit almost any other spot in Palestine

to ask, from the point of view of common-sense and the practical, why

Joshua did not settle in Shechem, or David in his native town of

Bethlehem; why Abraham was not satisfied with Hebron, or Solomon with

the plain of Sharon; or here at Beitin, assuming it to be Bethel, why

Samuel did not remain permanently, instead of returning from his annual

visits to his shelterless home, perched on the arid hilltop, north-west

of Jerusalem.

In the Middle Ages Bethel was located farther north, near Nablûs, but

later historians identify it with Beitin. It is a miserable village,

with only the remains of a crusading church—said to be on the site of

Jacob's vision, now a mosque—to recall past prosperity; but there is

abundance of water, and everything was looking green and fresh after the

early rains. The associations, Jacob's dream, the burial of Rebecca's

nurse, Jeroboam's golden calf, Elisha's bears, seemed to diminish in

historical perspective when we heard of a circle of stones of probable

religious significance and extreme antiquity, and very rare, west of the

Jordan; but time would not permit us to examine them. There is a fine

reservoir, 300 by 200 feet, which has a spring in the middle; and all

about were scattered hewn stones and remains of columns, which one is

free to fancy may have belonged, as is said, to the temple of the golden

calf. A little beyond lie the pleasant little villages of Jifna and Bir

es Zet, occupied by Christians, with churches belonging to both Greek

and Latin Catholics, some English missionaries, and a school supported

by the American Quakers of Ramallah, about an hour away, who, here and

elsewhere, have excellent institutions of a really useful and practical

kind.

Ruins on various hilltops remind us that the district was of importance

in Roman times, that Jifna was the capital of one of the ten toparchies

into which the Romans divided Judæa, and that, probably on account of

its importance as the great north road, several points of vantage were

fortified by the Crusaders—a stronghold known as Casale Saint Giles,

after Count Raymond of Saint Giles, having its special significance for

the English.

The Lady was particularly interested in a hill lying to the south, as

being associated with a piece of folklore of which a close variant is

found in the Outer Hebrides. An inhabitant of Jifna, returning home from

fulfilling his Passover obligations in Jerusalem, was recounting the

wonders which had lately taken place in the Holy City—the life and death

of Jesus of Nazareth. His friends were quite disposed to believe in the

miracles of healing related, but when he concluded with the account of

the Resurrection his wife, who was plucking a fowl for supper, observed:

"Your story is just as probable as that this cock should fly out of my

hands and escape"; upon which the bird returned to life, and, flying

through the door of the house, alighted upon the opposite hill, which is

called _Jebel ed deek_—Hill of the Cock—to this day (_cf._

Goodrich-Freer "Outer Isles," Chap. x.). According to some, the village

of Et-tayyibeh, which fronted us as we left Beitin, is "the city called

Ephraim," where Jesus retired after the miracle of the raising of

Lazarus, so that something of His fame was, perhaps, already known in

the neighbourhood.

Truly, the tribe of Ephraim had a beautiful inheritance! All the way we

go are signs of a rich abundance such as our eyes are little accustomed

to; fig-trees, whose wide-spreading branches sweep the ground;

olive-trees, whereof the young shoots, the biblical "olive branches,"

have grown into veritable individual trees, and each hoary veteran

stands king in a little grove of his own kindred. In a narrow valley,

where there is only just room for the new road above the bed of what

must be at times a torrent, we noticed many Jewish tombs cut into the

rocks on our left, and stopped to examine one, of more elaborate

workmanship than the others, having the seven-branched candlestick

sharply cut into the rock to the left of the entrance, three pairs of

branches turning upward and four downward.

Two of the party turned aside to visit the village of Seilun, lying

about half-an-hour east of the road—a scene of manifold interest. The

view alone is worth the détour, affording the first glimpse of Hermon,

the great landmark of Palestine and Syria—a chain extending for about

twenty miles, and averaging over 9000 feet in height. The identification

of Seilun with Shiloh,[1] at once brings to the mind a crowd of

associations—the resting-place, from the time of Joshua to that of

Solomon, of the Ark of the Covenant; the scene of the prayer of Hannah,

and of the dedication of Samuel; of the life and tragic death of Eli; of

the visit, in disguise, of the wife of Jeroboam.

Nothing is more tiresome than the conventionality which obliges a

tourist, at sight of a bat or an owl, to recall some quotation or apply

a prophecy, as if bats and owls were never found unannounced by the

minor prophets; but the utter desolation of Seilun, ruined even in the

time of St Jerome, can hardly fail to remind the spectator of the words

in Jeremiah, although we do not know the nature of the catastrophe

referred to: "Go ye now unto My place which was in Shiloh, where I set

My name at the first, and see what I did to it for the wickedness of My

people Israel." The mound is covered with débris of buildings, hewn

stones, broken columns, and fragments of carving. One of the more

complete among the ruins is evidently built of fragments from some

earlier structure, the lintel of the door, now fallen, being a monolith

covered with beautiful sculpture. The main building, a mediæval fortress

church, is some 33 feet square, the roof having been supported by four

columns with Corinthian capitals. A small mosque has been added on the

east side at some later period, and is known as _Jâmi' el Arba' in_—the

forty companions of the Prophet. These forty saints turn up in various

forms in Palestine—Jewish, Christian, and Moslem; and at Ramleh

(Arimathea, probably) the same tower has done service in honour both of

the forty Christian martyrs and of the forty companions of the Prophet.

An exceedingly realistic picture in the Armenian cathedral at Jerusalem

supplies full details of the martyrdom. Upon Mount Carmel we have a

sacred grove known as "the trees of the forty" (_i.e._ martyrs), and

near Nablûs we passed a chapel known as Rijal el-'Amud—"Men of the

Columns"—the burial-place of forty Jewish prophets. The new road came to

an end at the thirty-fifth kilometre, just after the separation of our

party. It had passed through various stages illustrative of the history

of road-making, and had lately been reduced to the merest anatomy,

wholly destitute of covering. It now reverted to the piles of rocks

which, under the name of roads, are to be so carefully avoided in the

East—at best resembling the bed of a mountain torrent, but more often

the wreck of a Yorkshire wall. The riders naturally made their way

across the nearest ploughed fields, and finally, by a precipitous

descent, found themselves in the small plain or wide valley of the

Lubban, where a busy scene presented itself. In a corner of the

triangular plain, or at the mouth of the valley, as one prefers to

regard it, an abundant spring takes its rise beside the ruins of an

ancient khan, and here large numbers of fellahin and Bedu had paused to

water their cattle, horses, and camels. Here our party reunited once

more, and here we lunched, to the great amusement of a large audience,

who were particularly entertained with our spirit-lamps. A testimony to

the greater fertility of this district was afforded by the immense

flocks of birds passing over our heads eastwards, probably to the

newly-sown fields, and by the rooks following the plough.

It was after three o'clock before we were again on our way, and the

twilight soon overtook us, although we did our best to push on, warned

of a very bad descent before we should reach the great plain framed by

the hills of Samaria. Just below this descent, and before coming into

the Plain of El-Makhna, we met the other end of the new road coming out

from Nablûs to meet that from Jerusalem. We avoided it with much care,

grateful to the whiteness of its newly-macadamised surface for warning

us, in the darkness, where not to go. For something like three hours the

great hills of Ebal and Gerizim loomed vast before us; while far away we

knew the great snow crown of Hermon must be looking down upon us; but we

had little pleasure in our ride, for the darkness had already descended,

and from lack of interest we were all tired. Even the Arab servants,

Khalil and Abdallah, did not talk, and only from time to time broke out

into song. So many persons of all kinds must traverse this road from

Jerusalem to Nablûs, and so few but tourists must trouble themselves to

carry tents, that one wonders someone does not establish a decent khan

to serve as half-way house in the twelve or thirteen hours' ride—though

it might be difficult to say where, as the Christian villages of Bir es

Zet and Jifna occur too early in the day's march from Jerusalem.

However, when the new road is once opened, some of the neighbouring

villages, El Lubban, for instance, may send out feelers in the direction

of the highway of commerce.

The stars, of a brightness of which we know nothing in the West, came

out suddenly, as if a curtain had been withdrawn, not piercing the

darkness one by one, as with us; and soon a radiant moon looked over the

top of the great screen of mountains on our left; and when, by-and-bye,

we turned, somewhat suddenly, west, we had sufficient light to be

conscious of the great hills of Ebal and Gerizim on either hand, and to

catch a glimpse of the enclosure around Joseph's Tomb and, a little

farther on, Jacob's Well. Our horses, who had been dejected and

uninterested all day, seemed to be aware that the worst was over, and,

suddenly reviving, were soon clattering over the cobble-stones of

Nablûs. At every turn we expected to be stopped by a demand for our

teskerys (passports), or some other formality, as in no town in

Palestine is the traveller so subject to demands for backsheesh as here,

and it was with some surprise, as well as relief, that we found

ourselves in the spacious reception-room of the convent. By a kindly

provision of the patriarchate in Jerusalem, here and at certain other

places, one can obtain very comfortable sleeping accommodation and the

means of preparing food.

[1] One can hardly feel doubt as to the identification, the biblical

description being so very exact: "Shiloh, which is on the north side of

Bethel, on the east side of the highway that goeth up from Bethel to

Shechem [_i.e._ Nablûs] and on the south of Lebonah [_i.e._ Lubban]."

CHAPTER II

TO SAMARIA

"What these rites [_i.e._ of the Samaritans] are, I could not

certainly learn, but that their religion consists in the adoration of a

calf, as the Jews give out, seems to have more of spite than of truth

in it."—HENRY MAUNDRELL, 1697

We rose early next morning, in order to view the sights of Nablûs, and

returned in a couple of hours, in entire sympathy with the desire of the

Jews to have no dealings with the Samaritans—not that we found the Jews

themselves particularly attractive, for they are here of that type of

feature, so rarely seen in the East, which we habitually associate with

a Cockney accent.

The town lies in a long, narrow streak between Ebal and Gerizim, the

sole pass in the central mountain range of Palestine, the farthest north

of the line of cities—Shechem, Shiloh, Bethel, Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and

Hebron—long commercially important, and, from the abundance of water and

surrounding fertility, capable of becoming what it perhaps once was—a

really beautiful city. It contains the ruins of many churches, now all

converted into mosques; one, known as the Great Mosque, having been

originally built by Justinian, and restored in 1167 by the canons of the

Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem, with much resemblance to their own church.

Another mosque of interest, probably originally a hospital of the

Templars, is now devoted to the lepers, who here present a miserable

spectacle, practically uncared for, in striking contrast to all that is

done for them in Jerusalem, where there are two lepers' homes—one

supported by the Government, and nursed by the Sœurs de Charité; the

other, and larger, by the German Moravians.

From the aspect of the Jewish and Samaritan inhabitants one may gather

that the soap produced in fifteen factories is mainly an article of

export. The Moslem population, which amounts to over 20,000, is more

prosperous in appearance; and, indeed, Nablûs is a somewhat thriving

centre of trade in wool and cotton. There are about 700 Christians,

mainly of the Greek Church. The Franciscans, as well as the Jerusalem

patriarchate, have churches and schools; and there is a small Protestant

community, now in the hands of the C.M.S., originally founded, on very

different lines, by Bowen, afterwards Bishop of Sierra Leone, who was a

practical philanthropist and who established looms, gave technical

instruction in various arts, instilled cleanliness and sanitation, and

taught his flock to earn an honest living; after which, by degrees, and

having spent himself and his substance, he gave them religious

instruction. The Moslems have a girls' school and college, and several

elementary schools.

We picked our way to the Jewish quarter through heaps of decaying

vegetable matter and along roofed passages, dark as a cellar, and where

only in the middle could one walk upright, into the Samaritan

settlement, which was decidedly cleaner and more airy, but where the

inhabitants, spoilt by the tourists, were clamorous for backsheesh. At

every step we were tormented by would-be vendors of antiques, mainly

cufic coins, the very school children bringing torn pages from their

copy-books for sale to the Frenjy who were known, by experience, to be

ready to buy, irrespective of the value of the articles of commerce. As

a matter of fact, we did buy, from a member of the high priest's family,

an Arabic seal, a silver medal of some Roman Catholic community, and

some models of the rolls of the Law ingeniously made out of kerosene

tins! What Palestine did before Russia and Asia Minor sent her kerosene

in cubical tins, known as "gas-boxes," it is difficult to imagine—not on

account of the "gas," which is, however, cheap and good, but on account

of the tins, which are, in their natural state, the water-cans,

flower-boxes, general receptacles, and even wine and spirit barrels, for

every household. With slight additions and a little manipulation they

become garden watering-pans, dust-pans, sieves, culinary vessels of

various kinds, lamps, lamp-shades, reflectors, stoves, baths, musical

instruments, spoons, forks, and brush handles. They serve the

errand-boys for baskets, and the children for toys; they supply material

for buildings, from a dog-kennel or stable up to an entire suburb of

Jerusalem, known as the Box Colony—the houses, constructed out of

miscellaneous materials, being entirely faced with "gas-tins"; they are

raw material for the tinsmith, the gunsmith, and, in some degree, for

the leather trade, as we found traces of them in our harness. And here,

in Nablûs, they turned up afresh, effectively modelled into the likeness

of some of the oldest bookbinding in the world.

We found ourselves, finally, in a small square or court inhabited by the

Samaritan community, where climbing a few stairs, we reached a sort of

balcony, in which a score of children were receiving instruction, their

feet tucked up in front of them, their shoes piled together in the

doorway. We followed two good-looking young men into a small,

whitewashed room, the floor of which was covered with matting, and which

contained, for all furniture, a sort of reading-stand, upon which were

placed, for our inspection, the scrolls of the Law. Of course, we did

not see the famous Samaritan Codex—who does?—but that exhibited was of

sufficiently venerable appearance to appeal to our imagination, and, in

a certain sense, to our reverence. It was soiled and worn, in the part

exposed, from the frequent handling and kissing of many generations; and

the elaborate, gilt cylinders, so often portrayed, might be, for all we

knew, of considerable antiquity, although Sir George Grove, who

described then nearly fifty years ago, concluded, after careful and

expert examination, that the oldest could not claim to be earlier that

the fifteenth century. Even had we been privileged to see the celebrated

Codex itself we should not have believed that it was written by Abisha,

the son of Phinehas, nor even—the alternative tradition—by Manasseh, the

high priest in the time of Ezra. The Samaritans keep all the Jewish

festivals, but sacrifice only at the Passover. They ignore all the

traditional literature, and teach only the Pentateuch, and, according to

many travellers' tales, and even a popular guide-book, the "Book of

Joshua," which, however, is not a sacred volume but a mediæval MS.,

written in Arabic, with proper names in Samaritan, and describing the

adventures of their race from Moses to Alexander. This, with a few

prayers and hymns, constitutes all their literature.

No one can feel indifferent to this little community, "sent to Coventry"

some two thousand five hundred years ago, when the Jews refused to allow

them to share in the rebuilding of the Temple on the ground that they

were mere colonists, destitute of genealogy, and that no one knew who

they were, or where they came from. No wonder that the Samaritans, under

the circumstances, should have set up rival Holy Places, like the Greeks

and Latins, respectively, in Jerusalem to-day. Here they are still,

however, on the same spot; while the Jews, who despised them as a

mushroom population, are wanderers over the face of the earth. They are

said to be decreasing in numbers, and amount now to only about one

hundred and sixty. Benjamin of Tudela estimated them in the twelfth

century as only one hundred in Nablûs; but in those days they had

adherents in Ascalon, Cæsarea, and Damascus—amounting to one thousand in

all. Now, this is their only settlement; the little, whitewashed

synagogue the sole outward and visible sign of their race, their faith,

and even their dialect, for in the ordinary affairs of life they use

Arabic.

The office of high priest is hereditary in the tribe of Levi, and it is

interesting to note that he holds, in addition, the secular dignity of

president of the community, and is, moreover, one of the district

authorities. Jerusalem has some personal acquaintance with his son and

heir-apparent, who makes occasional visits to the Holy City for various

purposes, including the sale of manuscripts, not, perhaps, quite

convincing as to their antiquity or value; but the scion of a high

priest must live, even if the methods should bring him occasionally

within the arm of the Law. The official stipend is derived from tithes

paid by the faithful, who, unfortunately, have little to tithe.

Their festivals have been often described; and the Samaritan Passover

has become a commonplace of tourists, though, happily, there are still

some to whom the slaughter and disembowelling of half-a-dozen poor

little lambs, which have been tamed and kept as domestic pets, is not a

pleasing sight at close quarters. One feels especially thankful for the

Gospel dispensation on reading in the twentieth century such details as

the following:—"Whilst the six lambs were thus lying together, with

their blood streaming from them, and in their last convulsive struggles,

the young _shochetim_ (five lads, who acted as butchers) dipped their

fingers in the blood, and marked a spot on the foreheads and noses of

the children. The same was done to some of the females."

Importunate Jews and Samaritans followed us back to the convent, their

numbers increased by inquisitive Moslems coming to see the Frenjys

fleeced, and a few especially impudent girls, who demanded backsheesh on

the ground that they "sat down in the English school." We speedily

convinced the entire crowd that we were not tourists, much to the

satisfaction of the officers of the convent, who suffer much from the

visitors of their guests.

"Baedeker" was on business, and we were obliged to postpone, to some

future occasion, several visits we would have gladly paid; above all,

the ascent of Mount Ebal, whence one has a view practically over the

whole of Palestine—a country, be it remembered, however, containing no

more square miles than that of Wales. Gerizim is, historically, the more

famous of the two, and that most frequented, as by far the easier climb;

but a view from Carmel to Jaffa, from the Mediterranean to the mountains

of Moab, would have been to some of us more suggestive, and of deeper

significance, than the Moslem wely alleged to contain the skull of St

John the Baptist, or even the church, possibly of the Justinian period,

which may be on the site of the Temple of Gerizim destroyed by Hyrcanus,

rival to that at Jerusalem. At Jacob's Well also we would have willingly

lingered, grateful to Professor G. A. Smith for leaving us still in

possession of the traditional site, which he maintains against many

opponents. ("Historical Geography," xviii.) Another site offered for

consideration, as that where Abraham prepared for the sacrifice of

Isaac, we summarily condemned without trial. Some of us had ridden to

Beersheba, which we knew to be a good sixteen hours' ride south of

Jerusalem, Nablûs being equally a good twelve hours' north, and we

failed to understand how an old man and a boy, with an ass heavily

burdened, could have made the journey on foot in a period of less than

three days! The acoustical properties of the valley between the two

mountains need astonish no one who has seen the position, or indeed many

other places in Palestine, where the nature of the limestone formation,

the innumerable caves, and the intense clearness of the atmosphere,

carry sound to inconceivable distances, and many times we have carried

on conversation with persons visible only as a distant speck. On one

occasion the Lady, who had left the Artist sketching on some rising

ground, and had herself crossed a valley, and climbed a Tell beyond,

mindful, though somewhat incredulous, of traditions on the subject,

addressed her friend, whose whereabouts she knew, but who otherwise was

too distant to be easily visible. To her intense surprise she was

promptly answered, and the two were able to carry on conversation

without even raising the voice.

We were soon on our way north, anxious to have time to visit Sebaste,

the city of Samaria, on our way to Jenin, our next halting-place for the

night. The scenery of this district, if pleasing, is as unexciting as

the county of Yorkshire. There are bare spaces, rocky and sterile,

sloping down into fertile plains. There are pleasant fields and fruitful

gardens, and we gathered our first anemones of the season, scarlet and

purple and white, and noted that the mandrakes were coming into

bloom—rich, compact masses of violet in their crumpled, primrose-like

leaves. Here and there were trickling rills, which, although the season

was dry and the early rains had been a disappointment, had enough life

left in them to produce bright ribbons of verdure across the plains,

which opened out amid detached hills to right and left. Not only the

familiar olive-trees scattered over wide tracts of land, but oaks and

carobs, and even gardens of fruit-trees—apricots, pears, apples—give to

the scenery a homelike air, which to our eyes, long used to the sepias

and vandyke-browns of Judæa, was reposeful and refreshing.

We were able to appreciate the observation of Professor G. A. Smith

(_op. cit._ Chap. xvi.), that Samaria is the scene of all the long

drives of Old Testament history—a fact due to the openness of the

country, and the possibility of practicable roads passing among, rather

than over, the mountains. It was here that Ahab raced the rain-storm

coming up from the Mediterranean—well do we know the tearing, raging

"latter rains" of Palestine; here that Jehu drove furiously; here that

Naaman came with his horses and with his chariot to visit Elisha; here

that Jehu gave a lift to Jehonadab, the son of Rechab; here that Ahab,

who had at least the virtue of courage, was propped up to lead the

battle while his life-blood streamed into the midst of his chariot, to

be licked by the dogs when it was washed in the pool at Sebaste, whither

we were hastening in the morning sunshine.

We passed through two or three villages, each with its gardens and

springs, and noted the beauty of the women—a rare sight here, where a

woman is a grandmother before thirty and a withered hag at thirty-five.

They are more graceful, more shapely of limb, with better-set heads than

in Judæa, where a woman's comeliness is measured by weight, especially

among the so-called beauties of Bethlehem. We turned out of a

well-wooded valley into a wide basin, where a rounded hill, some 300

feet high, rose suddenly in front of us, like an island in a lake,

which, in days when it was crowned with a stately city of Greek

architecture, and surrounded at the base by a noble colonnade nearly

2000 yards in length, must have been, indeed, an imposing spectacle.

Few spots in the whole of Palestine are possessed of associations more

varied and interesting than those of Sebaste, though its history may be

less familiar than that of other cities. Always strategically important,

protected by mountains on three sides, looking clear out to the

Mediterranean on the fourth, one cannot wonder that Omri should have

recognised its value as a stronghold; nor that it should have withstood

several prolonged sieges, one lasting until one mother said to another:

"Give thy son that we may eat him to-day, and we will eat my son

to-morrow," and till an ass's head was sold for fourscore shekels. It

must have been down below, in the plain across which we are riding, that

a curiously dramatic scene was enacted when the lepers, obliged, even in

times of siege, to sit in the gate, argued among themselves that they

might as well die by the hand of the enemy, with a chance of food, as

sit where they were, with the certainty of starvation—and so ventured

into the camp of the Syrians, to find that an aural hallucination of the

sound of horses and chariots had caused their flight, so that the poor

pariahs "went into one tent, and did eat and drink, and carried thence

silver and gold, and raiment, and went and hid it; and came again, and

entered into another tent, and carried thence also, and went and hid

it." Even the Assyrians blockaded Samaria for three years before they

could possess it. Alexander the Great, Ptolemy Lagos, John Hyrcanus—each

in turn invested this little hill rising before us, so green and smiling

in the midday sunshine, always an enviable possession. Picture after

picture rose before our minds as we rode across the fertile plain, but

none more vivid than that of the days of its Greek grace, its Roman

luxury, as interpreted by Herod, who named it Sebaste—Greek for

Augusta—in honour of his patron, Augustus, who had bestowed upon him the

site of the city demolished by Hyrcanus over a century before, though to

some degree restored by Gabinius, the successor of Pompey.

Herod it was, who raised the colonnades and gateways which we were

approaching; who built a city, according to Josephus, two miles and a

half in circumference; who beautified it with palace and theatre and

hippodrome; who made it a recruiting centre whence his veterans could

collect mercenary troops; who substituted the worship of Cæsar for the

worship of Baal, in a temple, whereof the ruins lie a few score yards

beyond those of the great Gothic cathedral of the Crusaders, now turned

into a mosque—the site having been originally chosen as that of a

basilica, in honour of the tradition that the body of St John the

Baptist was here buried, a tradition dating, at least, from St Jerome.

The tombs of Obadiah and Elisha are also shown in the same rock-hewn

chamber.

Well might Isaiah call such a spot "The pride of Ephraim, the flower of

his glorious beauty, which is on the head of the fat valley!" and when,

in addition to all the gifts of Nature, we add all that wealth and art

could command, we cannot help reflecting, as on a score of occasions

during our journey, here and in Moab, upon the persistent fashion in

which history and fact are falsified by conventionality. The literature

and art of a thousand years, the teaching of one's childhood, the wilful

misapprehension of modern travellers, the conventional treatment of

works of devotion, have combined to impress a great number of sincere

and devout persons with the general idea that the surroundings of our

Lord somewhat resembled those of a Highland fishing village; whereas—in

Jerusalem, in Jericho, along the shores of Gennesaret, in Tyre and

Sidon, in Cæsarea Philippi, in the cities of the Decapolis, and here in

Sebaste—His eyes must have rested upon architecture and sculpture which,

even in decay and ruin, are still a revelation of beauty to such as

ourselves, accustomed to the ineffectiveness of the Thames Embankment

and the trivialities of Trafalgar Square. Here in this little country of

Palestine, two thousand years ago, were palaces and fortresses, theatres

and hippodromes, temples, baths, colonnades, porticos, triumphal arches,

forums, to which Europe, in this twentieth century, with all her boasted

science, her educated "masses," her "art for the million," is at least

wise enough to attempt no rivalry. In a Bedawin tent we may recreate the

life of the patriarchs, and realise that Abraham was but a wealthy

shech; in many a fellah village we may find such kings as the thirty-two

who reinforced Benhadad; we may find everywhere types of half the

characters, of most of the manners and customs, of the New or Old

Testaments. The everlasting hills remain; the stars, as the sand of the

sea, still shine out in millions, which in the West the ordinary

observer can never look upon; the flowers spring up for us as for

Solomon; the patient beasts are but intermittently remembered now as in

Holy Writ; the dog is still the victim and not the friend of man; the

sheep follow their shepherd—at his voice they separate from the goats;

the poor are always with us—but only a strong effort of imagination,

only familiarity with traditions of classic art and luxury, can revive

for us the glory of the cities, "over whose acres walked those blessed

feet."

On this subject at least may we here enlarge our notions, and "divest

our mind of cant!" May we realise something of the glory of the

Temptation-vision of our Lord, something of the æsthetic beauty over

which He, beholding, wept; may imagine somewhat of the stones and the

buildings which were there; may conceive the contrast between the

cave-stable of Bethlehem and Herodium, the castle of the Herods, which

frowned down upon the Jewish village; between the little group which

surrounded the Master when He paused to heal the blind beggars of

Jericho, and the sensuous beauty of the city, with its subtropical

vegetation, and its luxurious winter homes.

Even Jerash, more perfect in its remains, impressed us less than

Sebaste, so unique as to beauty and dignity of position. The mosque,

although rich in fragments of what must have been a grand cathedral in

the days when Sebaste was a bishopric—the title is still owned by the

Greek Church—has been too recently restored, after destruction by fire,

to be very interesting. Our attention was, in fact, somewhat diverted by

some handsome Arab boys playing unmitigated hockey within the precincts.

On the north sides are the outlines of a square fortress, with corner

towers, probably a home of the knights of St John. Mutilated remains of

the Maltese cross are still to be traced on many of the stones scattered

about Sebaste. M. de Vogüe, who seems to have been the first to show, in

plan, a restoration of the buildings, considers that, next to the Church

of the Holy Sepulchre, this was the most important reconstruction of

crusading times. The length is almost 165 feet, the breadth 75. The

decoration of the capitals is of the beautiful palm pattern, the arches

of the apse are pointed.

"Baedeker," to whom all this was already familiar, proceeded with the

horses to the top of the hill to superintend the servants' preparation

for luncheon, as time was precious. We found him, half-an-hour later,

sitting in the midst of a group of shechs—young men, women, and children

hovering in the background. With their usual absorbent interest in

politics—the greater for the rarity of its gratification—they had

assembled to hear the latest news, and had worked backwards from the new

railway and the troubles in Macedonia—which had called into service Arab

soldiery from all parts of Palestine, and had been the excuse for

special taxation—to the Boer War, the Armenian question, and the visit

to Palestine of the German Emperor,—the great epoch of the modern

history of Syria—the occasion of new buildings, new roads, new uniforms,

new trade, and a general cleaning-up along the line of route, with which

only the orders issued during the cholera scare of 1903 could in any

degree be compared.

With the usual courtesy of the Moslem Oriental, so different from the

unabashed curiosity of Europeans and the Europeanised, they withdrew

when we made preparations for food, the two or three actually engaged in

conversation too important to interrupt, emphasising the occasion for

discretion, by throwing stones at others who approached too closely.

Some children, many of singular beauty, retired behind a neighbouring

wall, and for some time lacked courage to pick up the dainties we threw

to them. When we made our final move numbers came up to offer coins,

fragments of carving and specimens of carnelian, lapis-lazuli, and

crystal. One especial treasure was an abominable bracelet, of the type

of art sold at exhibitions, and lost—to her advantage—by some

tourist—not, fortunately, that many tourists visit Sebaste, as was shown

by the superior manners of the people and the absence of demand for

backsheesh. The village is entirely Moslem, and all behaved with

self-respecting dignity, if we except, perhaps, one boy who pulled

gently at the Doctor's blond locks, to see if they grew upon his head;

and some men who, greatly interested in our spirit-lamps, put a match to

the weeds upon which we emptied one before packing, with a childish

pleasure in, as he said, "setting fire to water." One of the many cheap

conveniences of this country is the fact that one gets an imperial pint

of spirits of wine—no miserable "methylated" substitute—for about

eightpence; but we have never found it in a Moslem village, where the

use of alcohol is, of course, forbidden by religion. With much

hesitation and politeness some of the men asked leave to examine a small

revolver belonging to one of the party, which excited great admiration,

the firearms of the country places being often of a very primitive

description, sometimes of such a size that one wonders how they are

carried. It is very rare, however, to meet an Arab, beyond the towns,

who is not fully armed, even if his weapon be a flintlock six feet in

length. It was a curious conjunction of the new and the old, when Khalil

stopped a shepherd one day to ask for a light for his cigarette, a

dainty Egyptian, which we had given him. The peasant produced a piece of

a table-knife, picked up a flint off the roadside, tore a scrap of blue

cotton from his ragged garment, and in an instant Khalil was made happy

as only tobacco in any form could make him.

A self-constituted guide dispersed the crowd, and conducted us round the

hill, that we might more closely observe the colonnade, some 20 yards

wide, and originally over 1800 yards long. All the columns have lost

their capitals and architraves, but are still 16 feet high, some being

monoliths. Besides, perhaps, over a hundred still standing, columns and

fragments of columns are scattered in all directions—a lesson in the

history of Tells and the exaltation of the valleys of Palestine. Many

were still on the surface of the ground, still more were half buried, of

others only the projecting stones of the base remained visible; while

here and there the observant, or rather, perhaps, the experienced, eye,

could perceive by the contour of the ground that hidden treasure of

sculpture lay concealed. The soil is deep, and, for the most part,

cultivated; for the hill of Sebaste is no rocky scarp, and in ten years

much of all this will have disappeared. A separate mound, a little away

to the west, is said by some to be the site of Ahab's ivory palace, and

might repay exploration. Happily, the Germans seem able to obtain

firmans at will, having probably inspired confidence, even in a

suspicious Government, by the liberality and thoroughness of their

excavations.

We longed to linger among so much that was beautiful both in art and

nature—the green hill sloping gently to the wooded plain, the hills

eight miles away opening towards the west, where the intensely blue

waters of the Mediterranean, though distant a score of miles, sparkled

gaily in the sunshine. Little wonder that the sun-worshipping peoples

should have here erected temples to the great god, whose majesty was

shown to them in the smile of the sea and the glory of the sunset!

Little wonder that the great Syrian princess, Jezebel, should have

rejoiced in the ivory palace looking across to the northern shore she

had known in her childhood's home.

One parts so reluctantly from what is beautiful that some of us resented

almost angrily a reminder that it was possibly at yonder gateway that

the dogs licked up the blood of Ahab; that on this smiling plain Jezebel

slew the prophets of Jehovah; and Jehu, with still greater brutality,

the priests of Baal and the family of the king; that here also Herod

murdered Mariamne, strangled his sons, and, possibly, beheaded John the

Baptist.[2]

Our last visit was to the hippodrome, lying in a bay of the hill to the

north-east—a fine natural position for such a purpose (480 by 60 yards).

Many fragments of columns yet remain, apparently belonging to this noble

circus, but which some have alleged to belong to a second colonnade at

right angles to the first, such as we saw at Jerash. Finally, as we

descended to the bottom of the valley to the north-east, we passed

another plateau, strewn with massive columns, but a few of which remain

upright, probably the forum of the Herodian city, and noted here and

there some fine sarcophagi. A ride of four and a half hours was still

before us, some of which was over paths of a nature to be traversed, if

possible, by daylight, and we might not linger.

[2] Another tradition, more probable, though with less dramatic

fitness, places the scene of the execution at Machærus, east of the

Dead Sea.

CHAPTER III

TO TAANAK AND MEGIDDO

"Consider with me that the individual existence is a rope which

stretches from the infinite to the infinite, and has no end, and no

commencement, neither is it capable of being broken. This rope, passing

as it does through all places, suffers strange accidents."

For the first fifty minutes our road lay, for the most part, upward,

constantly offering glorious views, especially in retrospect, and then,

after crossing a green and wooded plateau, we began once more to descend

to the north-east, and at the village of Jeba, after passing through a

pleasant district, well covered with fruit gardens, found ourselves,

about an hour later, once more on the ordinary highroad from Nablûs to

Jenin. We looked with interest at the village of Sânûr, with its ruined

fortress, monument to "Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast

The petty tyrant of his fields withstood," some eighty years ago. The

petty tyrant was the Pasha of Acre, who besieged, and with difficulty

captured, the fortress manned by the independent villagers, whose

courage must have impressed the authorities, for they had the cowardice

to destroy the fortification entirely. A little farther on we rode

across a low plain which resembled the bed of a large lake, perfect in

islands and peninsulas, and which bore the descriptive name of the

Meadow of Sinking In—_Merj-el-Gharak_. Fortunately for us it was fairly

dry, and we were able to press forward over its green surface, urged on

by "Baedeker," who assured us of two bad descents which would be trying

to the nerves and, what mattered more, the riding powers of the Artist,

who was somewhat inexperienced in horsemanship, and, on the theory that

December was a cold month, so encumbered with clothing that she had no

seat whatever, and who having been unwillingly persuaded to emulate the

Lady's habit of riding _en cavalier_ courageously faced difficulties by

standing in her stirrups and balancing herself upon the pommels. Of

course, the stirrup straps broke at frequent intervals, not having

adapted themselves to their new uses; but the accident was soon

repaired, and the interval of repose was good for the horse, happily as

gentle as a sheep, but who suffered also from the unwonted arrangement.

Fortunately, nothing more serious occurred to detain us as we resisted

the temptation to turn aside to inspect Dôtân, probably the Dothan where

poor little Joseph, after passing through Shechem, fell into the hands

of the Midianites, who carried him into Egypt. Nablûs, as we have seen,

being the only pass through the mountain range of Central Palestine, and

Samaria being an open country of good roads, this district must have

been the great highway from north to south, from the coast to the

Jordan, from Europe and Asia to Africa. It is easy enough to imagine the

caravan of Midianites winding southward along yonder ridge, laden with

spices for embalming, and visible from far by the sons of Jacob as they

sat about the well at the foot of the hill, now crowned with terebinths,

and well aware that the travellers would probably turn aside for water.

Many ancient, empty, bell-shaped cisterns are to be found in this

district such as that into which Joseph was let down.

We surmounted a stony ridge, where the path was in such good condition

(not being slippery, as we had feared, after the early rains) as to give

us confidence in regard to the worse which was to come, but which, in

fact, turned out to be all the better for such dampness as there was, as

the horses were less liable to slip on the polished rocks; and, indeed,

these creatures are as surefooted as donkeys.

We were glad that the daylight sufficed to show us, as we descended into

a narrow valley, before reaching the village of Kubâtîyeh, a sacred tree

adorned with rags, standing by the wayside on our right—the first we had

seen on our journey, though we afterwards met with many, especially in

Galilee.

Such trees exist all over the country, both east and west of the Jordan,

except where the presence of Europeans has taught the people to disguise

their beliefs, which even then, however, appear in other forms; as, for

example, in Jerusalem, where the faithful tie rags to the framework of

windows in the mosque and elsewhere, instead of, as here, in the Temple

of Nature. The theory of such veneration seems to be much the same as

that of the Old Testament saints, who left stones at Bethel, and

Ebenezer, on the banks of the Jordan, and so on, "which remain there,"

say the chroniclers, "to this day"—evidently indicating that they are a

monument to record, a witness to testify, an outward and visible sign to

excite inquiry, to serve as evidence of some special visit, to

demonstrate to God and man that such an one was there in person, from

such and such motives, and with such and such intentions.

The tree itself, with its quaint decorations, torn from the apparel of

the faithful, is not always the direct object of veneration. It is often

accompanied by a wely or grave of a saint, and though at times the cause

of the selection of such a place of interment, is sometimes only the

accidental consequence, having grown up beside the tomb; whence it is

held to be under the saint's protection, just as other objects—ploughs,

timber, grain, and vessels of various kinds—are left there, safe from

thieves, Christian or Moslem. Sometimes such a wely is surrounded by a

whole grove of trees, which may be sacred for either reason, and may be

the cause or effect of the presence of the saint. We always behold them

with satisfaction, as assuring the continuance of vegetation here and

there, which would otherwise, at least in Judæa, inevitably be destroyed.

Another use of such a spot is for the cure of diseases. This may be by

means of self-suggestion, the disease being transferred to the tree with

the fragment of the dress of the patient, making much the same demands

upon the imagination as the Christian science, the hypnotic suggestion,

the bread-pill, of modern therapeutics. Another method of cure—also a

question of the dominance of mind over matter—is that of taking from the

tree the morsels attached to it, which are then worn like the scapulars

from Lourdes or St Winifred's, just as, long ago, the sick carried from

St Paul "handkerchiefs or aprons, and the diseases departed from them,

and the evil spirits went out." Truly, there is nothing new under the

sun! Often, especially on Thursdays, the eve of the Moslem Sabbath,

these trees have been seen in flames, which, however, do them no injury,

just as Moses saw "the bush which burned and was not consumed."

Sometimes voices speak in them, just as David waited for "the sound of

the going in the mulberry-trees." Sometimes they are held sacred as

having served as resting-place for some holy man, just as the oak of

Abraham at Hebron is, as such, still a place of pilgrimage for

Christian, Moslem, and Jew.

We could ascertain nothing concerning the history of the sacred tree of

Kubâtîyeh; and, indeed, it is but rarely that the people are able to

relate the history of their shrines, although their faith in them must

be strong, as it suffices, as we have seen, for the protection of

articles deposited there for safe-keeping. Men—Christians or

Moslems—ready to swear anything by the Almighty, will hesitate at a

false oath by the shrine of a saint. In some places they hang fragments

of meat upon the trees, just as the Israelites offered "shewbread," and

Jotham talked of "the wine which cheereth God," the anthropomorphic

conception of the Deity being nearly as strong now as when the

Israelites were still wanderers in the desert. Such ideas are racial

rather than religious. Professor Curtiss ("Primitive Semitic Religion

To-Day") demonstrates effectively that such beliefs are common to

Christians and Moslems and, in places, even to Jews; he mentions,

however, one shrine at least which, on account of the more than doubtful

character of its orgies, the more fastidious Moslems have abandoned to

those of other creeds. Still, as in the time of Hosea, "they sacrifice

upon the tops of mountains, and burn incense upon the hills, under oaks

and poplars and terebinths, because the shadow thereof is good." The

shadow, by the way, has a direct effect of healing upon the really sick,

but is dangerous for the _malade imaginaire_. We would commend it to the

attention of fashionable physicians.

The discussion of sacred shrines and trees lasted us during our long and

steep descent to the bottom of the valley, where the sight of the

telegraph wires recalled us to the realities of life, and it was with

great satisfaction that we found ourselves farther descending, through a

Moslem cemetery, into the town of Jenin. Here, as elsewhere, we noticed

the entire absence of the outskirts and suburbs to which one is used in

a different civilisation. One enters directly into a city or village

without any intervention of scattered domesticity to indicate what is

coming. We were at once in the main street, substantial houses two

storeys high on either side of us; here a large _serai_ (court-house),

there a gaily-lighted coffee-house thronged with guests; gardens and

palm-trees among the houses; obvious well-being everywhere. We stopped

at the village khan, and were at once conducted to our resting-place.

In old schoolroom days, when we used to read the long lists of places

the Israelites conquered or did not conquer, we little thought that one

day we should take an active and personal interest even in the order of

their arrangement. Issachar, we learn in Joshua xix., had assigned to

them sixteen cities, which included En-gannim and Tabor, "and the

outgoings of their borders to Jordan," and here, for the first time in

our lives, we were not bored by Issachar, and were delighted to be at

En-gannim, which is Jenin, and means "the garden spring"—a fact

impressed upon us as we were ushered between long garden borders, hardy

herbaceous of aspect, overshadowed by rose-bushes, into two delightful

little stone summer-houses at the bottom, with a fountain—now, alas!

dry—between. The men took possession of one house, the ladies of the

other, and in the latter, as the larger and pleasanter, we prepared our

supper. There were mats on the floor, some stools, two chairs, a table

with a patchwork cover, and three of the deep window-seats which, in the

East, are generally large enough to count as fittings. A clay stove,

with glowing charcoal, was prepared for us outside the door, plenty of

water was placed at our service, and we were soon feasting on soup,

tinned meats, preserves, white bread, and, of course, tea. At intervals

servants came across from the khan to attend to our needs; and finally

all was cleared away, and comfortable mattresses, pillows, and wadded

quilts, all in freshly-washed covers, were spread upon the floor. It may

be worth while to mention, once for all, that, despite the presence in

our little company of some supersensitive souls, we never had occasion

to unpack our precious "Keating."

To awake in a rose garden on a December morning, to go out of doors to

wash, to take our breakfast at an open door, are sensations to remember.

Khalil was late in bringing the horses, ordered for seven o'clock, and

so sleepy that we more than suspected he had assisted at the _fantasia_,

the sounds of which had reached us far into the night. He was, however,

less inclined than usual to resent having to stay behind the rest of the

party, in order to lead the Artist's horse, at the pace which alone was

possible under the circumstances. It probably gave him the opportunity

of a good nap.

Jenin is surrounded by gardens, and dominated by palms and minarets. It

is a seat of government, has a bazaar, and two Moslem schools. One of

its mosques may have been the church which was seen by Boniface of

Ragusa, a Franciscan writer, as late as 1555, erected to commemorate an

early tradition that this was the scene of the healing of the ten

lepers, one of whom was a Samaritan—a fact, however, which, by the light

of nature, one would not expect to be specially mentioned in Samaria.

Passing over a little stream, and among cactus hedges, we soon left the

ordinary route northward on our right, not only from our usual desire to

avoid the beaten track, but because it was to be our special privilege,

under the leadership of "Baedeker," to visit two spots practically

unknown to ordinary travel—Taanak and Megiddo—at both of which very

extensive excavations are in progress, the one under Austrian, the other

under German auspices. Very soon after leaving Jenin we had made a still

farther descent, and found ourselves at the entrance of the plain of

Esdraelon or Jezreel, the greatest in Palestine, which, roughly

speaking, extends from the Mediterranean to the Jordan, although

interrupted by certain undulations. Esdraelon, the great battlefield of

the country, was commanded by a strategical line of fortresses, Taanak,

Megiddo, Bethshan, and Dor, the first three of which we hoped to visit.

Our road was, for the most part, just such as one finds in the

neighbourhood of an English agricultural village—a well-trodden path

between cultivated lands—where, however, among corn already springing

green, crocuses, white, yellow, and purple, pink cranes' bills, and

yellow daisies, the weeds of Galilee, turned the whole into the aspect

of a garden. Plovers wheeled overhead, rooks followed the ploughs,

dainty chats watched us but a few feet away, chiff-chaffs and

corn-crakes and starlings and sparrows and skylarks talked English, and

only when we passed a sacred tree hung with rags, or the eye was caught

by the colocynth fruit, or by anemones, scarlet, purple, or white, were

we reminded that this was Galilee and December, but that, being some two

hundred and fifty feet below sea-level, we had no right to feel

surprised at hot sunshine and the flora of spring.

The plain widens as we advance, and as here and there some distant spot

is pointed out upon the wide horizon, our hearts thrill at the mention

of names of lifelong familiarity, glorious in association of the past,

but which we realise with difficulty as being before us here and now.

Behind us are the hills of Samaria, to our left the country slopes

gradually upward into the low hill of _Belad-er-Ruah_ (the Breezyland),

the wall which separates the plains of Esdraelon and Sharon, hiding the

Mediterranean, and ending, far ahead, in the great precipice of Carmel,

where we know the blue waters are lapping gently this soft, warm

morning. To our right are the hills of Gilboa; while farther, where

peninsulas of mountain step out into the plain, we are bidden to look

here and there; while the name of Nain, Endor, and, above all, Nazareth,

bring before our minds pictures imagined in childhood, and which it may

be difficult, though not unwelcome, to supplant. The great round island

of Mount Tabor serves as centre from which to calculate the whereabouts

of this place and that.

Our party had been reinforced by the addition of a practical excavator

whose presence was specially valuable to us, not only for his knowledge

of the country, but because he had done active work on both of the Tells

we were about to visit. We commonly called him "the Italian," although

he spoke Italian, German, French, and Arabic with equal facility, and,

having been associated with the abandoned English railway, was even

capable, at need, of falling back upon English.

At the end of two and a quarter hours we drew up at the foot of Tell

Taanak. No one who has even seen a Tell could fail to recognise another

wherever he met it, and no one who has not seen one would be quite

easily convinced of its nature. In Europe, where, if we destroy a house,

we use the material for something else, where we reckon in centuries

where the East reckons in cycles, where smoke and damp and frost, to say

nothing of utilitarianism, are for ever laying waste, it is difficult to

conceive of a city abandoned thousands of years ago, and buried, by the

hand of Time, as gently as the Babes in the Wood by the robin-redbreast.

Imagine the city of York (to take as an example one which stands upon a

plain) forsaken of its inhabitants, gently dropping to pieces as it

stands, and, finally, neatly covered up, in the course of ages, in a

grave-shaped mound, leaving plenty of room for the cathedral towers, and

grown over with flowers and grass; then suppose that a party of New

Zealanders, visitors to Harrogate, about the fortieth century, should

make a vertical shaft straight through the middle, and, somewhat

disdainful of vestiges so modern as the county capital, should work

their way down to Eboracum, and (but here the analogy of the English

town ceases) to two or three cities below that. The specialty of the

methods of the German excavators is that specimens of all that is met

with are, if by any means possible, preserved as the investigation

proceeds, so that you may reconstruct for yourself the life of York, as

well as of Eboracum, and of any Scandinavian or British predecessors

below both.

The contrary method, of destroying one city to arrive at another, and

hastily covering up what remains of both, has however, certain

advantages, as it enables excavators to dogmatise without possibility of

contradiction from succeeding archæologists, and so saves much of that

discussion which, while it establishes knowledge and elicits facts, is a

weariness to the amateur public of subscribers and contributors. The

German (and, of course, Austrian) excavations are conducted by groups of

savants, and not by individuals. Each has his own specialty; and as

there are several of such groups now at work in Palestine each, at need,

can be reinforced from elsewhere; results can be considered from various

standpoints, and opinions exchanged. No _ad interim_ reports are

presented to the public; the excavators are not obliged to have

something to say at stated intervals; and when the results finally

appear they are in a form which leaves nothing to be desired from the

point of view of art production. Teutonic thoroughness frugality, and

self-dedication can never be more admirably exhibited than in the

prosecution of knowledge in this form; and the German expenditure, as

compared with the result, is, in Palestine, as surprising in scientific

research, as in their philanthropic institutions.

We rode as far as a terrace more than half way up, and then dismounting

were soon absorbed in the excavation, on our own account, of a rubbish

heap close by, where we filled our pockets with fragments of painted

pottery and iridescent glass, with jar handles and broken lamps. "That

is Cypriote," "that Phœnician," "that pre-Amoritic," "that merely

Arabic," pronounced our experts. "Merely Arabic" might be earlier than

the foundation of Westminster Abbey, or the days of Charlemagne, but we

were willing to hold it cheap when we could have for the stooping, let

us say, the fragment of a water-bottle, still fresh as to its

ornamentation, pleasing as to its colouring, which had long been buried

when the nomadic tribes of the Israelites first settled in Canaan; or a

lamp which may have burned when "fought the kings of Canaan in Taanak by

the waters of Megiddo"—celebrated in the savage war-song of Deborah the

prophetess, which, in its geographical allusions, is a mine of wealth to

the archæologist.

Exploring a Tell must be wonderfully exciting work, even when one has

rewards less immediate than the results at Taanak, which is the first

Canaanite site ever excavated. Think of finding oneself face to face

with the remains of the infants offered up on yonder rock-cut altar—jars

and jars full of the bones of poor little Canaanitish babies who might

otherwise have lived to play with the little Manassehites who came to

settle among them, whose fathers could not drive out the people of

Taanak from their own stronghold. Or imagine the sensation of finding,

two metres deep under the soil, the only Israelitish altar of incense

ever discovered! Although broken into forty pieces, Dr Sellin contrived

to put it together, when it was found to be exactly in accordance with

the prescribed Mosaic measurements, decorated with rams' horns, with

carvings of six cherubs and four lions, and with representations of the

Tree of Life and the struggle of a man with the serpent. Dr Sellin

ascribes it to the period when the Samaritan influence was strong in

Israelitish worship, and thinks it may be as late as from five hundred

to one hundred years before Christ. It is to be observed, however, that

the German specialists hesitate to claim the very remote periods

assigned by other excavators to similar discoveries, often differing

from them by as much as a thousand years.

Here we came across the massive wall of a Canaanitish building of a

period some eighteen hundred years before Christ; there what was

possibly the house of Baana, the governor of the fortress in the time of

Solomon; here an Arabian castle of the times of Haroun-er-Raschid; here

was found an image of Baal, there of Astarte, here a head of Jahwe, the

god of whom it was forbidden to make any graven image. The variety of

the commercial relations of Taanak is shown by Mykenæan pottery from the

Ægean, scarabs from Egypt, seal cylinders from Babylon. Four thousand

years at least passed in review before us as we clambered among the

ruins; we ran down an inclined plane into a city which was ancient when

the child Joseph passed under its walls, a trembling little slave, on

his way down from Dothan into Egypt; or, perching on a staircase, looked

into the homes of those citizens whom Joshua failed to subdue. Here we

mount a few steps, and find ourselves in the fortress which guarded the

plain when Israel and Sisera were struggling on the banks of the Kishon;

or, wandering outside, we rest beneath the city walls

"Graven with emblems of the time,

In honour of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid."

No story of the Arabian Nights which may have been related here could

have for us half the glamour, the enchantment, of those we may make for

ourselves here and now. A fragment of iridescent glass, of an ivory

handle, of a water-jar—here are charms enough to weave the magic spell!

And here, to exorcise all, comes the rain, and we find ourselves again

amid the petty cares of to-day, and hasten back to the terrace where our

horses are patiently waiting.

We were quite ready to accept the alleged Megiddo as such, on the

authority, among others, of Robinson among older geographers, and of

Professor G. A. Smith among the new, and, perhaps still more, of those

who had turned the site, as well as the question, inside out.

Tell el-Mutesellim lies just beyond Lejjun, which corresponds with the

Legio of Eusebius. The great plain is called by St Jerome by the name of

Campus Legionis, as well as the plain of Megiddo. "The waters of

Megiddo," of which we read in Judges, are represented by the abundant

streams, tributaries of the Kishon, which the Arabs call the Muquṭṭa. At

Lejjun one at once observes a very fine aqueduct, and a large mill, both

Roman, and some tentative excavation, which promises good results later,

has revealed a theatre and some bricks stamped with the cognisance of

the sixth legion. Megiddo and Taanak are always named together in Bible

history, and we learn that both were fortified towns before the

Israelitish occupation; that the tribe of Manasseh failed to drive out

the inhabitants; that Solomon fortified Megiddo; and that two kings of

Judah—Ahaziah and Josiah—died there, far from their own royal city—a

fact which testifies to its continued consequence. Excavation at Tell

el-Mutesellim has revealed a strongly-fortified city of obvious

importance, which seems to fulfil all required conditions. Conder,

however, identifies Megiddo with a distant town near the Jordan, far

from Taanak, the Kishon, and the great plain, which there was no

particular reason for fortifying, but which is called Mujedda, which

sounds rather like Megiddo.

We reached Lejjun in bright sunshine about an hour after leaving Taanak,

and Tell el-Mutesellim rises somewhat abruptly beyond. On an intervening

hill, separated from the Tell by a narrow valley, stands a row of

corrugated-iron huts, neatly lined with wood, surmounted by the German

flag, and bearing the familiar legend, "Thames Iron Works," another

reminder that the abandoned English railway, making such rapid progress

but a few miles away, must henceforth be put to the credit of Turkish

finance and German perseverance.

One large hut served as reception-room, and later as bedroom for the

ladies, a second as storeroom and bedroom for the men, and a third was

divided into stable, kitchen, and sleeping-place for the servants. A

drawing-room was arranged for us in the open air, where deck-chairs were

placed so as to be sheltered by huts on both sides, with a glorious view

over the Tell beyond to Carmel, Tabor, and the mountains of Gilboa;

while the fertile plain stretched like a great sea all around, and

behind us we could look over Lejjun, in the near distance, to our old

friends the hills east of the Jordan.

"Baedeker" and the Italian had been greeted by half the inhabitants of

the district, all old friends and co-workers in the excavation of the

Tell, glad just now of a vacation, which gave them leisure to cultivate

their fields, but quite ready to return to the work promised them in a

few weeks. We met a man with a gun, who had wandered far, in vain, in

search of game for our table, and another who mourned that only a couple

of eggs had been forthcoming when our somewhat sudden arrival was

announced; but the cook, _pro tem_, was in good spirits at having at an

early hour secured five chickens, which had been simmering ever since.

One of the Arab's many virtues is that his soups are strong and he never

gives you underdone meat. If this were true at lunch it was still more

so at dinner, after seven hours' additional cooking, and the liberal

allowance of material, all served in the same _pot-à-feu_, gave everyone

the chance to select his favourite portion. The Italian, who had made a

shorter journey than we, had brought us some extra luxuries, and we

found ourselves in very comfortable quarters.

After luncheon we visited the Tell, and, with plenty of time before us,

enjoyed a detailed inspection, and the opportunity of pausing, wherever

we felt disposed, for discussion and examination. The amount of

excavation already accomplished was just enough, like the index of an

interesting book, to indicate what might be expected, and to rouse,

without exhausting, our interest. Here we were shown what seemed an

extraordinary extent of surface excavated in proportion to the short

period—about four months—of work. "Baedeker" had himself had charge of

the work, with the Italian as foreman, and so we were able to follow in

detail the plan of operation, and to learn how to dissect a Tell. They

had begun at the eastern edge because, as it was the highest point, they

expected to find an acropolis, as was, in fact, the case. The city to

which it belonged had, apparently, been destroyed by fire, as the great

beams which served as supports were considerably charred. The fortress,

of Jewish workmanship, was built of great stones, but the buttresses

were of brick. There was an outer wall, and an aqueduct of later, but

also of Jewish, construction.

We were even more interested in a temple of pagan cult, where, not in

the open air, as usual, but inside a square chamber, were found a

rock-cut altar, and on either side a mazeba, or stone pillar, such as

Solomon set up before the Temple, with the names of Jachin and Boaz, and

such as, under the name of menhirs, we find in Scotland and the west of

England, and, in fact, all over the world—relics of a cult associated

with the most elementary principles of nature worship. In horribly

suggestive proximity were sacrificial jars containing the bones of

infants, head downwards.

South of the walls of the fort were many small rooms, possibly barracks;

while a tomb near was crowded with the bodies of men, and in another

tomb were found ten skulls, of which many showed cuts or holes,

evidently relics of a siege. One incomplete shaft, but a few feet wide

and seventeen metres deep, not yet reaching rock, showed us the method

of beginning operations. Here we could see sections of a wall of unburnt

brick, and of two others of unhewn stone, and we longed to return to see

these indications followed up. Among the most precious portable finds

were an idol and a terra-cotta head, probably Egyptian, a seal with

letters in an unknown script, a bowl for libations, a painted censer,

and several enamelled gods. Shortly before our arrival, during the last

days of work before pausing for the winter rains, some large tombs had

been opened, and found to contain some beautiful and unique painted

jars, as well as other jars, bowls, and lamps in large quantities. No

description of these excavations had as yet been published, and we

thought ourselves very fortunate in being able to study and inquire at

first hand. It is almost equally interesting to listen to an explanation

of work accomplished, and to speculate as to the results of work only

begun.

After dinner we were tempted by the notion of visiting these cities of

the dead by moonlight, and were well repaid for the effort of crossing

the rough ground of the intervening valley. There were no sensuous

triumphs of Greek or Roman art, no glories of column and capital, but,

perhaps still more impressive, the homes of peoples who had passed away

when Greece and Rome were yet unborn. Here were streets trodden by men

of like passions with ourselves: hastening to business or pleasure,

meeting their brides or burying their dead. Here were chambers in which

the drama of life had been played out over and over again—comedy as well

as tragedy, birth and death; here the altars where vows had been

fulfilled and the gods propitiated; gardens sanctified by the games of

children, the laughter of youth; where ambitions, hopes, affections had

been born—to die, or to live for ever. All around us spoke of the

eternity of all but man—the stars, the hills, the flowers which return

to us year by year—Carmel outliving its tragedies, Tabor its miracles;

beyond the hills that ancient river, the River Kishon, hastening to the

eternal sea. Man alone had passed away, leaving only the wreck of his

labour, the ruin of his homes, to show where he had been. But yet

another thought came to us. In a fold of yonder hills, where the

moonlight rested tenderly, lay the little village of Nazareth, where

long ago there dwelt a Man who

"Wrought

With human hands the creed of creeds

In loveliness of perfect deeds,

More strong than all poetic thought."

We carried our discussion no further. Surely here, as in that little

village, had been men into whose lives had entered the beautiful and the

true—which, in proportion as they resembled the life of that Man of

Nazareth, must endure for ever.

It was the last night of the old year, and in each heart were memories

and longings which might not be revealed. We walked back through the

soft night air, each thinking of friends far away, gathered about winter

fires, and speculating, perhaps, as to the whereabouts of their

wanderers. When we had once more assembled in our friendly hut, and,

thanks to "Baedeker's" kindly forethought, had drunk together of an

excellent punch of tea and red wine, with a dash of kirsch-wasser, we

felt constrained to go forth once more into the wide space beyond. Not a

solitary light twinkled on the hillside; the village of Lejjun was

sleeping: we were the centre of our world. The horses were tethered

before our doors, and we were amused to observe that the force of habit

persisted even in sleep, and that, so used were they to travelling _en

queue_ that, even in repose, they stood in a single row, head to tail.

"The shadows flicker to and fro:

The cricket chirps: the light burns low,—

'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands before you die,

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you.

What is it we can do for you?

Speak out before you die!"

Each of us had our special regret as we stood beside that grave, each

our special hopes as, only a few minutes later, we greeted the stranger

guest and wished each other A Happy New Year!

CHAPTER IV

HAIFA AND CARMEL

"Traversing this fertile country one is more and more impressed with

the incorrectness of the judgment of the ordinary tourist who,

confining himself to the route prescribed by Cook, is taken through the

barren hills of Judæa and to one or two holy places in Galilee, and

then goes home and talks about the waste and desolation of

Palestine."—LAURENCE OLIPHANT

The early hours of the next morning were devoted to sketching and

photography, and after a midday lunch we mounted for a ride, of some

nine hours, to Haifa. We soon found ourselves back in the plain, with

the great precipice of Carmel before us for our goal. The general

features of the country were the same as yesterday, except that we had

the River Kishon for our companion. Even the slight amount of rain which

had fallen had had its effect here, and the road in parts was heavy

enough to disconcert the horses, who picked their way as daintily as if

they remembered nothing of the fact that it had rained, with

considerable mud as a result, even in their own royal city of Jerusalem,

only nine months ago. We could not wonder, however, that the River

Kishon should have swept away the hosts of Sisera, for on ground such as

this the horse-hoofs might well be "broken by means of the prancings,"

and nine hundred chariots of iron, hemmed in between the river and the

steep hillside, would have a very poor chance, especially in the rainy

season, which one may imagine it to have been, as Jael, whom one thinks

of as of the Medici, or the knitting-women of the Fronde, "brought forth

butter in a lordly dish"; and butter, except at a prohibitive price, at

a convent or two in Jerusalem, is not to be had in the summer months.

Surely so vile a woman was never celebrated in song!

The flowers were an endless feast; never had we seen anemones of so many

shades, and perhaps the greatest event of the day was the finding of the

first jonquils, _narcissus tazetta_. We had been watching their deep

green homes for the last three days, but this was the first time we had

been rewarded. Both the Doctors contrived to possess themselves, upon an

island in the river, although with some difficulty, of a great handful

of the sweet-smelling blooms, the firstlings of our New Year's Day. A

few minutes later we came to a couple of bridges, one for the railway

and one for the road, and from that point we were more or less in sight

of the railway all the time. Some of the horses made a great fuss about

the passing of a train, for, although the line is not yet formally open

for passenger traffic, a train runs every day in each direction for the

convenience of the engineers. Just at sunset, after about eight hours'

travelling, we came in view of the lights of Haifa, twinkling along the

shore, with only the palms and minarets to dispel the illusion that it

might be Brighton or Hastings. Carmel was before us, the great landmark

of the Palestine coast, boldly leaping out into the sea, its lighthouse

throwing out a friendly welcome, rather, perhaps, than a warning, to

those who go down to the sea in ships. This is the one spot on all the

Syrian coast remotely resembling a harbour; elsewhere are only ledges

for sea-birds, rocks inviting to wreckage, and Nile sand brought up by

the currents flowing north. The Phœnicians, of whom alone among all the

inhabitants of Syria we can think as a seafaring people, traded from

farther north. Little wonder that the people of such a land should

welcome the promise, so strange to other ears: "There shall be no more

sea!" For many months in the year the inhabitants of Judæa can count on

letters only "if they can land at Jaffa," and constantly, even when

mail-bags can be tossed into the small boats, which alone can come

ashore, passengers are carried past, northward to Beirut, or south to

Egypt, to make a fresh attempt, often two or three times repeated; and

every year has its record of drowning and disaster.

Sir John Maundeville, who is never at a loss to account for anything

that comes in his way, gravely assures us that there was here formerly

"a good city of the Christians called Caiphas, because Caiaphas first

founded it." The town of Haifa (the Arabic name being variously

transliterated Haifa and Caifa) is the old Sycaminum; the modern town,

however, stands farther within the bay than the old, the ruins of which

are still visible at the foot of Mount Carmel. It was built in the

middle of the eighteenth century by Dhaher, a famous governor of the

neighbouring Acre or Akko, which is the old Ptolemais.

Our quarters at Haifa were at the farther end of the town, and after

passing through streets which, though better than in many places, are

decidedly Oriental as to width, paving, and dirt, it was reposeful to

find ourselves in the German colony—a picturesque European village: wide

streets planted with trees, well-kept roads, gardens gay with flowers,

and houses which seem to have been transported from some quaint, old

country town, each with its text in "black letter" over the door. One,

above all others, was to some among us almost a place of pilgrimage,

with all its associations of a man of genius unappreciated,

misunderstood—one of the many messengers who, with hands laden with

gifts, sought to come unto his own, and his own received him not!

+Wohl denen, die das Gebot halten und thun immerdar Recht.+

+Hans Oliphant.+

Not England, and not America, carry on his work of—literally—sweetness

and light, but the Germans. Haifa is practically a German town so far as

its trade, agriculture, and property are concerned. Even the Russian,

American, and, till lately, the English consuls are Germans, and most

officials, of whatever nationality, reside in the colony. The hotels,

shops, and banks are German. The Roman Catholic hospital and hospice are

in the hands of a German sisterhood; the sanatorium on Mount Carmel with

its luxurious accommodation and extensive grounds, _rendezvous_ of

English missionaries, is conducted by Germans.

The Scottish medical mission, here as elsewhere preaching the Gospel of

good deeds, has an admirable hospital. _The Jerusalem and the East

Mission_ has a chaplain. The great hospice on Mount Carmel is maintained

by the Carmelite Fathers. Out of 12,000 inhabitants half are Moslems,

sixteen hundred Jews, and about a thousand Greek, Orthodox, and Latins.

Of the six hundred Europeans, five hundred are Germans; the rest of the

population is mainly Maronite and Greek Catholic.

Plain living and high thinking are, of course, the ideal of life, but

there is a joy in unpacking, in a hot bath, in a white table-cloth. Our

companions at table were mainly German engineers and contractors, at

work on the new railway. We regretted that we were too late to see the

opening ceremony of a few days before, which seems to have presented

some interesting features, and was certainly a triumph for the Turkish

Government. In spite of its execution having been German—for even when

in English hands its surveyor was Dr Schumacher, the German-American

Vice-Consul—the Moslem ownership of the railway has not been lost sight

of, and it is an interesting anomaly that its inauguration was

accompanied by the sacrifice of several sheep. Their throats were cut,

the blood poured upon the soil, and the flesh roasted and given to the

poor. This is done "for a blessing." How far this savage ceremony is a

perpetuation of the Old Testament idea of propitiating the Deity, how

far it is done to avert the attention of the _jinn_, it is impossible to

say. Similar ceremonies are performed, both by Moslems and Christians,

at the initiation of any undertaking,[3] from the opening of public

works to the building of a dwelling-house, the anointing with blood

being a necessary element.

To our great regret we were now to lose our friend "Baedeker," to whom

we owed so much of pleasure and information. We had given him, in

return, much valuable advice on how to construct a guide-book, framed on

the analogy of certain specimens beloved of tourists, from which we had

culled choice extracts for frequent quotation, the general principles of

which seemed to be hasty generalisation and the inculcation of moral

lessons. We may incidentally mention that the longer and better one

knows Syria the more one learns to appreciate the blessings of Baedeker

and to value its extreme accuracy, even in the smallest particulars.

We devoted the next day to renewing our stock of provisions at the

excellent shops, visiting friends, and, finally, to a ride up Mount

Carmel. Last year an Austrian boat, the _Posseidon_, came ashore in this

very treacherous harbour, and among other passengers rescued from the

wreck were a cat and kittens, belonging to the son of the captain. These

kittens found a kindly welcome among the German population, and in two

houses were introduced to our notice with much pride. They were

evidently accustomed to attention, for their self-esteem exceeded that

of even other cats "subject to vanity," and their Angora lineage, short

faces, tufted ears, bushy tales, and black toes justified their claim to

admiration. The Arab cat leaves little to be desired as to pelage, but,

as a rule, his markings, black on white, would disgrace a fox-terrier.

He is, for the most part, well treated in Palestine, and, in

consequence, extremely intelligent; but, like the Arabs themselves, and

the Arab donkeys, is too much _en evidence_ for perfect good breeding,

and his "flashes of silence" are very occasional, and generally due to

sleep or food.

The ride up Mount Carmel was an occasion never to be forgotten. The new

carriage road climbs the four hundred and eighty feet which lead to the

convent in wide sweeps, and is very easy; but the direct ascent is

abrupt, and the views proportionately impressive. Northward, the

crescent-shaped bay terminated in Acre, with all its associations of

crusading times; while far below us Haifa, and all its gardens, offered,

perhaps, the most smiling and prosperous picture which Palestine had

ever shown us. The detached houses, buried in trees; the unwonted

completeness and order of the cultivation; the miles of terraced

vineyards, parents of the excellent Haifa wine; the picturesque German

colony; the estates of Selim Effendi Khuri—the millionaire of a district

in which are many rich men, mainly Germans; the orange and lemon

gardens, with their wealth of fruit, here a flame of bougainvilea, there

a bower of fragrant jessamine, at intervals a group of stately

palms—where else can we find a prospect such as this?

And then, when we reached the top, was there ever such a rock garden as

extends for miles along the summit of Carmel, the mountain which

travellers abuse, and for which guide-books apologise? Did ever a

January sky shine over a more marvellous wealth of beauty and of

promise? Rocks of limestone and hornstone; a general effect of

greenness, kept fresh at all times of the year owing to the

neighbourhood of the sea and the constant dews; scattered shade of

sapling oaks, of carobs, hawthorns, elders, Guelder-roses, pomegranates,

acacias, almonds now laden with bloom, arbutus, and tamarisks; an

undergrowth of azalea, genista, rock-rose, juniper, a tangle of the

glorious clematis _cirrhosa_, with its delicate greenish blossom;

myrtles, and "the slender galingale"; ferns in every shady nook—the

_felis-mas_, _asplenium-trichomanes_, the scented fern;

_cheilanthes-fragrans_, the waving maiden-hair—a feast of colour and

sweetness; cyclamen, crimson, pink, and white; hyacinths, blue;

chrysanthemums, golden; mandrakes, royal purple; periwinkle, sapphire;

anemone _coronaria_, scarlet, purple, pink, white; the stately narcissus

and sweet jonquils; crocuses, golden, purple, and white. And then the

promise! How we longed to wait a week or two, as we watched the strong

green swords of the bulbous and tuberous plants preparing to defend

their coming treasure; the irises, great and small; the gladioli, the

squills, the star of Bethlehem, the hyacinths, the arums, the orchises.

Soon, too, there would be adonis, red and yellow; scarlet ranunculus,

chrysanthemums, and later, asphodels, lupins, scented stocks, lychnis,

geraniums of many kinds, centaureas, valerian and a hundred other

blooms, which had sent no word of their coming, and at which we could

only guess. To catalogue only seems a sort of profanation.

"I touch,

But cannot praise; I love too much."

There, for the first time, we saw the beautiful little sun-bird,

although it is said to be common in the Jericho district. To the

uninstructed it is a humming-bird, although one is assured that they

exist only in the New World. It is little over four inches long,

radiantly attired in purple, green, and blue, with brilliant orange

tufts upon his shoulders, a wonderful metallic sheen over all, and a

long, curved bill. The little lady who accompanies him, though far more

humbly dressed, is also dainty and fascinating in brown shot with green.

Another tiny bird which gave us much delight was the long-tailed wren,

_drymæca gracilis_, which runs up tamarisk-trees like a tit, with a

little fan spread open behind it.

The scene gave a new meaning to familiar words: "The desert shall

rejoice, and blossom as the rose. It shall blossom abundantly: the glory

of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon."

The flowers of Lebanon and Sharon are also a joy and delight to the

beauty-loving eye, but to our fancy the excellency of Carmel is supreme.

The mountain at its highest point is less than two thousand feet, but,

rising sheer from the sea, is more imposing than many mountains of

greater elevation. The entire length of the range does not exceed

fifteen miles; but as only two villages, occupied mainly by Druses and

Greek Catholics, occur to break its solitude, wild beasts—jackals,

hyænas, wild boars, and even occasional panthers—are still more or less

in possession, although the cultivation of vines for the famous Haifa

vintage, has carried civilisation and humanity to a considerable

distance.

Of course, we visited the convent, with all its hospitalities and its

interesting historical associations: its memories of pious anchorites,

of their union, in the fifth century, with one of the earliest religious

orders; of the Benedictines who, early in the ninth century, built the

Church of St Margaret; of St Louis; of massacres which laid desolate the

convent; of the church turned into a mosque; and finally of the

restoration of the order, with permission to rebuild. The monastery was

used as a hospital when Napoleon besieged Acre, and the wounded,

murdered by the Turks, lie under a small pyramid in the convent garden.

Destroyed once more by the Pasha of Acre in 1821, the buildings have

been again restored on a scale to accommodate the large pilgrimages

which come every year from Europe. Even more humble pilgrims, natives or

Hindoos—for "the grotto of Elijah" and the "school of the prophets" are

venerated also by Moslems—are not forgotten, and a special building is

provided for them at the base of the lighthouse, which is under the care

of the monastery. It is said that an Italian, Brother Giovanni of

Frascati, is the real author of the reconstruction of the Carmelite

prosperity, for, sent by the general of the order to inquire into the

condition of things, he found only wrecked walls, and, as sole survivor

of the order, a single brother, who had taken refuge in Haifa. A firman

was obtained from Constantinople, and the two brothers devoted

themselves to the collection of funds, with such results that in 1827,

six years after its destruction, a new foundation stone was laid by

Giovanni himself. Liberal gifts must have followed, for, though severe

in style, the buildings are very spacious and solid, and include a good

library, very handsome church, oratory, and chapter-house.

A small chamber, little more than a cave, said to have been the

habitation of the three poor Carmelites who inaugurated the return of

the order in 1636, has been recently converted into a chapel dedicated

to St Simon Stock, the Kentishman who was general of the order in

Palestine in 1245.

We lingered to see the sunset clouds gather above the Mediterranean, and

then rode over the top of the ridge, and so back to the town, almost

grudging to go indoors as the stars sprang out and the red roofs and

green palms and olives of the German village faded away into greys and

purples. After dinner we had the privilege of examining Dr Schumacher's

precious little museum at the American consulate, and of seeing the map

of his survey of the East Jordanland, the first that has yet been

completed.

[3] Curtiss, _op. cit._ Chap. xiv.

CHAPTER V

NAZARETH AND TABOR

"From thence men go to Nazareth, of which our Lord beareth the surname

... because our Lady was born at Nazareth, therefore our Lord bare His

surname of that town."

SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILLE, 1322

"Mount Tabor in Galilee ... is of a remarkably round shape, and covered

in an extraordinary manner with grass and flowers."

ARCULF, 700 A.D.

Our departure next morning—our little party reduced to three and one

mukari—was somewhat delayed by the conduct of Sadowi, who, brought up in

Moslem surroundings, firmly protested against being ridden past a pig in

the streets of Haifa. If it had been a lion he could not have objected

more strongly, and as the movement of a pig is not rapid our progress,

for the length of an entire street, was a work of time. We were bound

for Nazareth, only some twenty-four miles distant, along a fairly good

road, but this was, on the whole, the most wearisome day of our journey.

A chain is no stronger than its weakest link; Khalil had to lead the

Artist's horse at a walk, our second servant had gone, and even if we

had known the way, or if it had seemed prudent to divide our forces, our

horses had no confidence in Frenjy, and so firmly refused to separate

from their stable companions—human and equine—that, after disputing the

question with them until we were tired, we abandoned ourselves to the

dragging pace which is so wearing to horse and rider, and which

protracted our journey till late in the afternoon.

Descending after three miles into the fertile plain of the Kishon we

retraced our road towards Megiddo for some miles, and then climbed to

higher ground, and passed through a succession of beautiful groves of

oak, very rare in this country, and which, we regretted to see, had been

partially destroyed in the construction of the new carriage road from

Haifa to Tiberias. Once more descending we reached, about fifteen miles

from Haifa, the village of Semûniyeh, historically interesting as being

the first settlement in Palestine of the German Society of Templars, who

have done so much for commerce and agriculture, and have demonstrated,

as no other Europeans have done, by their well-built, well-arranged

colonies, the fact that it is possible to live a domestic life under

conditions of order, beauty, and sanitation even in Palestine. This

first site, however promising and pleasing to the eye, was not, however,

well chosen, for the spring, bordered with flowers and shaded with

maiden-hair, turned out to be very unwholesome. We passed, just below,

the little village of Yâfâ, where since 1641 the Franciscans have

possessed a small chapel, on the alleged site of the house of Zebedee.

The villagers are mainly Latins and Greek Orthodox.

The town of Nazareth is so buried in a cleft of the hills that it came

into sight quite suddenly, lying to the left of the road, with a few

separated buildings, mostly modern institutions, the most striking of

which is the immense orphanage of the Salesian Fathers, with its long

arcades and its exalted position. A convent of Poor Clares is the only

building noticeable to the right of the road; on the left we pass a

pleasant-looking hotel (German) and some half-dozen houses, and we are

at the gates of the Franciscan hospice, a handsome building, capable of

accommodating over two hundred guests, with spacious reception-rooms and

every modern convenience, built mainly by the liberality of Americans,

and known, in consequence, as Notre Dame d'Amerique. Its hospitality,

like that of all the Franciscan hospices, is open to all, rich and poor,

irrespective of sex, creed, or nationality. Guests are at liberty to

leave a gift for the maintenance of the house; but nothing is asked, and

the Lady related several instances, personally known to her, in which it

had been declined owing to the circumstances, known or suspected, of the

visitor.

One's emotions on finding oneself in Nazareth are, like so many of the

most sacred things in life, "nothing to speak of." Easier is it to dwell

upon our hearty welcome and kindly companionship, upon the refreshment

of comfortable rooms and an excellent table, upon the unattractiveness

of the modern town and the superfluous philanthropy and multiplication

of benevolent institutions.

After "the cup that cheers," and which a Franciscan hospice anywhere in

Palestine may be warranted to produce at sight of an Englishwoman, we

wandered forth, rather rashly, in the twilight. The Lady alleged that

the ground-plan of the town could only be compared with Clovelly—each

house looks down the next-door chimneys, or would if chimneys there

were. The streets appeared to be about nine feet wide. On either side is

a pavement wide enough for one person; the middle is a water-course, a

drain, or a depository for decaying vegetable matter according to the

character of the quarter. If you meet a donkey your conversation with

your companion across the street is interrupted till it has clattered

past; if it is loaded you flatten yourself against the wall; if you meet

a camel you step inside the nearest house. The people have the manners

of those accustomed to tourists and to superfluously benevolent

institutions: the women stare boldly, the children demand backsheesh,

the men have lost the Oriental courtesy so welcome in less frequented

places.

The population is about ten thousand, of whom thirty-five hundred are

Moslems, and thirty-five hundred Greeks; about twenty-eight hundred

Catholics, Latin, Greek, and Maronite, and about two hundred and fifty

Protestants. The people are prosperous, mainly as agriculturists, but

there is also some commerce in cotton and grain.

The Franciscans, besides their own college for novices, have a school

for boys; the Salesians an orphanage for boys; the Christian Brothers a

school for boys, with higher grade as well as elementary teaching; the

Dames de Nazareth an orphanage and school for girls; the Sisters of St

Joseph a school for girls and a dispensary; the Brothers of St John the

Divine a hospital and dispensary; the Sisters of Charity all the

miscellaneous works of care for young and old, for homeless and infirm,

with which everywhere they fill up the gaps left by others. The Greeks,

Russians, Maronites—all have their own institutions; the Russians a very

large hospice for pilgrims. The Edinburgh Medical Mission has a church

and hospital, and the English have a small orphanage for girls, founded

by the Society for Female Education, which, despite its unattractive

title, has done some excellent work in Palestine. How, out of a

Christian population of about three thousand (exclusive of Greek

Orthodox, and in a well-to-do town), enough material is collected to

furnish occupation to so many societies, and the means of spending so

much money as is here represented, is beyond the understanding of the

mere layman!

Darkness fell suddenly, and in the narrow, unlighted streets we—to our

own self-contempt at so unusual a circumstance—lost our way, got mixed

with a long train of camels which, whether standing or sitting,

barricaded our steps in all directions, and were finally rescued by a

lad speaking very good French, who lifted the Lady bodily over

pack-saddles and humps of camels, drove her under arches formed by the

front and hind legs of camels, held aside for her the investigating

muzzles of camels, defended her from the hind legs of camels, and

finally, to her great surprise, delivered her safe at the convent door,

and disappeared into the dark.

Next day we visited all the traditional sites, known by description to

all the world. The great Church of the Annunciation, rich with costly

gifts of marbles, and silver, and pictures, on the site of that built by

Constantine, is the parish church of the Franciscans. The present

building is not older than the beginning of the eighteenth century; its

immediate predecessor having been burnt and pillaged by the Bedu from

beyond the Jordan. A very simple chapel covers a part of the

foundations, still visible, of a crusading church, on ground bought by

the Franciscans a hundred and fifty years ago, and which they hope some

day to restore. The timeworn arches, the fragments of masonry standing

silent and solitary in a walled garden, among well-ordered

flower-beds—the tradition that this was the site of the workshop of

Joseph, the village carpenter, impressed us more than all the wealth,

the multiplied legends of the handsome Church of the Annunciation.[4]

The Franciscans have also a chapel covering the rock said to be the

scene of one of the occasions when our Lord, after His resurrection, was

known in the breaking of bread. The Greek Catholics are in possession of

the church which is associated with the synagogue in which Jesus is said

to have preached, and from which He was cast out; the Greek Orthodox of

a chapel which covers one of the springs of the village well. Here, as

in many other places where only one well exists, we may feel certain of

at least one scene of many sacred associations.

Later in the day the Lady and the Doctor rode up to the top of one of

the many hills, which stand out like islands or peninsulas in the plain,

and from which, but a mile or two beyond the village, one has a view

which is an epitome of Old and New Testament history. It is said that

one may see thirty miles in three directions: east to the valley of the

Jordan and the hills of Gilead beyond, west to the Mediterranean, and in

the nearer foreground one may look upon the battlefields of Esdraelon,

on Carmel and Tabor, on the scenes of the history of Elijah, Barak,

Gideon, of the death of Saul, of the struggles of the Maccabees, of the

life of Jesus of Nazareth.

Here, once more, one cannot fail to be struck by the falsity of

conventional teaching. No meditation on the boyhood of Jesus is complete

without its paragraph as to the obscurity of His home, the remoteness of

this Galilean village, its aloofness from the life and history of the

times. The very phrase "Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?" is

taken in support of its insignificance, instead of evidence of the

well-known character for turbulence of its inhabitants—a character said,

by those in political authority, to be still prominent to-day.