FROM DAN TO BEERSHEBA.
Palestine—Its Situation—Its Dimensions—Its Names—Its
Topography—Its Climate—Its Seasons—Its Agriculture—Its People—The
Pleasure of Traveling through Palestine.
LYING between the Dead Sea and the river Jordan on the east, and the
Mediterranean on the west, and extending from Mount Hermon on the north
to the desert of Arabia on the south, is a country whose influence has
been more far-reaching than that of any other country on the globe.
The influence that this country has exerted upon the world is truly
remarkable when we consider the limited extent of its territory, and
the previous servile condition of the people who made it famous.
From the southern end of the Dead Sea to Gaza, on the Mediterranean,
the distance is only sixty-five miles, while it is not more than
twenty-three miles from the Sea of Galilee to Mt. Carmel. The average
breadth of the country does not exceed forty miles. Dan and Beersheba
stand respectively for the northern and southern limits of Palestine;
and these two cities are not more than one hundred and sixty-five miles
apart.
“The whole area of the land of Palestine,” says Dr. Robinson, “does not
vary greatly from 12,000 geographical square miles,—about equal to the
area of the two states of Massachusetts and Connecticut. Of this whole
area, more than one-half, or 7,000 square miles, being by far the most
important portion, lies on the west of the Jordan.”
This small land, inhabited by a feeble folk, who for four hundred years
had their necks galled by the yoke of Egyptian bondage, has given to
the world a Church, a Creed, and a Christ! The Church has carried the
Creed into every land under every sky. The Christ of Palestine has
become the Christ of the world; and wherever He is enthroned idols fall
and nations bow.
Small is the country, but important is the geographical position. It
has been called “the very out-post on the extreme western edge of the
East, pushed forward, as it were, by the huge continent of Asia.” Cut
off from Asia by the desert, and from Europe by the sea, Palestine
stands alone. And yet it was the door through which Asiatic and
European nations had to pass in order to visit, trade with, or fight
each other. There was a constant stream of commerce flowing through the
country. Hostile armies frequently met upon her hillsides, and watered
her fertile valleys with each other’s blood. It was therefore of the
very greatest importance as a strategical point. Thus, by their unique
geographical position, the inhabitants of Palestine could, by staying
at home, wield a most powerful influence upon the people of Europe,
Asia and Africa.
Again, close study reveals the fact that Palestine is as unique
_within itself_ as it is in relation to other countries. Within this
small area, the antipodes are brought together—the extremes of earth
meet. Palestine is a little world within itself. In the valley of the
Jordan there is perpetual summer; and, consequently, tropical fruits,
a profusion of flowers, and a great variety of birds and wild beasts
are found. Only a few miles away, Mount Hermon rises into the region
of perpetual snow. There the bear, and other animals natural to a cold
climate, take up their abode. Palestine has its highlands and lowlands;
its hill country and valleys; its fertile plains and barren deserts;
its oceans, rivers and lakes; its fresh water and salt; its flowing
rivers and Dead Sea. Within these narrow limits, therefore, is found
every variety of climate, soil and production, of habit and occupation,
of bird and beast.
We can see the wisdom, therefore, that God displayed in selecting this
as the home of His chosen people. Here they were to live and learn;
here they were to mould national character, and influence adjacent
peoples; here they were to commune with God, and write that Book
which was to be read on land and water, by fishermen and farmers,
by travelers on the desert and sailors on the sea. Whether chilled
by polar snows, or scorched by tropical suns, we can all read that
blessed Book with interest, pleasure and profit, and feel at home with
the writer.
This wonderful country is known by three names. The first is Palestine
from Palestina, the land of the Philistines, literally, “the land of
the strangers, or of wanderers.” Originally, this name was applied
only to that part of the country known as the marine plain, say from
Jaffa to Gaza, as that was pre-eminently the land of the Philistines.
Gradually, however, the word Palestine was accepted as the name of the
whole country.
Canaan, or the Land of Canaan, is a second name given to this
particular country. Canaan signifies “the low land,” or “the low
country,” as opposed to the “land of Gilead,” that is, the high
table-land the east of Jordan. It may at first seem strange that
a country so hilly and rough as this should be called “the low
land”; but it should be borne in mind that the hills are a kind of
a mountain-chain running through the country from north to south.
Approaching the country _from the west_, one is greatly impressed
with the low, broad, level marine plain which begins at Mt. Carmel
and extends far south of Gaza, getting broader and broader towards
the south. On entering Palestine _from the east_, one is even more
impressed with the low valley, or deep ghor, of the Jordan.
But no name seems so appropriate for this country as “the _Holy Land_.”
No explanation is necessary; every one understands the reason for, and
recognizes the appropriateness of, this appellation.
Enough has been said, even in this chapter, to give one some idea of
the topography of the Holy Land. Imagine a broad, level country one
hundred and sixty-five miles long, sixty miles wide at one end, and
twenty at the other. On one side this country is bounded by a sea, and
on the other by a river. Now imagine that you build a house through
the centre of this long, narrow country from one end to the other. Let
the roof come down to the ground on either side of the house, leaving
a broad plateau on either side, that is, a wide valley between where
the roof comes to the ground and the borders of the country. From the
top of the house, or mountain ridge, to the Mediterranean is 3,000
feet, while from its top to the Jordan or Dead Sea is 4,000 feet. This
gives an approximately correct idea of Palestine. But no one must for
a moment suppose the mountain ridge to be regular like the comb of
a house, or its sides smooth like a roof. From the central ridge, a
succession of peaks rise up to various heights. Beginning at the south,
the peaks are Hebron, 3,029 feet above the Mediterranean; Jerusalem,
2,610, and Mount of Olives, 2,724, Bethel, 2,400; Ebal and Gerizim,
2,700; “little Hermon” and Tabor (on the north side of the plain of
Esdraelon) 2,000; Safed, 2,775, and Jebel Jurmuk, 4,000. To find the
elevation of any of these peaks above the Dead Sea, just add 1,300
feet to the height already given. These several peaks mentioned are
just about the centre of the country from east to west. Sometimes the
central ridge is level on top, and we find a broad, elevated table-land.
During the rainy season, which usually begins with November and ends
with March, a great deal of water falls upon this mountain ridge. It
can not stay there, so, rolling itself up into torrents, it courses
down the steep sides with great swiftness. This has continued for
thousands of years, until now the ridge on both sides is seamed,
threaded, cut, worn and ditched by these torrents into almost every
conceivable shape. The wadys and ravines are not far apart, and are
frequently quite deep. So all through Palestine there are a succession
of ravines, running from east to west, with rocky ridges steep and high
between them.
One would naturally suppose that a country like this would be barren
and worthless; but not so with Palestine. These mountain ridges are
of a lime-stone formation. In the summer, the climate is exceedingly
oppressive; the rays of the sun are almost like streams of fire. The
thermometer rises in the day to 126 or 128 degrees. The nights, even
in midsummer, are cool and pleasant. At noon day the mercury registers
128 degrees, and at night it falls to forty and forty-five degrees.
In the day, when the lime-stone rocks become heated, they expand; and
at night, when cooled, they contract. They continue to expand and
contract until after awhile they fall to pieces—disintegration takes
place. This begets a great quantity of finely pulverized lime-stone
dust, which is extremely rich and fertilizing. Nature, with her ever
watchful care, has so arranged these hills as to enable them to catch,
retain, and appropriate most of this fertilizing dust. The hills are
naturally terraced. From base to summit we see one terrace rising above
another. They look like huge steps placed there to enable giants to
ascend. If the people would only build up the defective places in these
terraces, they would catch practically all of the dust caused by the
decaying rocks, and the country would become richer and richer as the
years pass by.
Palestine is still the “land of the vine and fig-tree.” Every hillside
is garnished over with olive trees, as also with figs, dates, palms,
and pomegranates. The decaying rocks feed the hungry trees they
bear. This suggests a very important question: What do the people of
Palestine live on? Now, as in Joshua’s time, “the tree of the field is
man’s life” (Deut. 20:19). The people live largely on fruits. Olives,
especially, are the salvation of that country. The people here eat
the olive as we eat peaches. They also pickle them; but the olive is
chiefly valuable for the excellent oil it yields. Olive oil is the only
seasoning these people have. Figs and dates are likewise plentiful at
all seasons of the year, in one form or another. The grapes of the
Holy Land are especially fine. They are abundant in quantity, large in
size, and deliciously flavored. There is a grape here that makes very
fine raisins, and another that yields a superior quality of wine. Wine
here is usually mild. It is also plentiful, and is used freely.
There are many valleys in this country that are as rich and fertile as
the alluvial deposits of the Nile. Such, for instance, is the plain
of Esdraelon and the valley around Lake Huleh. These garden spots are
annually sown in wheat. To be sure, the yield is not large. We can not
expect it to be large when we remember that these sons of idleness use
the same rude implements of agriculture that their fathers used three
thousand years ago. A camel, or a yoke of oxen, a forked stick, and a
half-naked Arab, make a first class plow team for Palestine.
The fact that these people are primitive in their mode and manner of
life, makes it all the more delightful to the equestrian pilgrims to be
here. The student of history, especially of sacred history, finds the
same pleasure in traveling through the Holy Land that a miner does in
traversing a rich gold field. The shining dust glittering in the light
of the sun stirs every faculty of his being; and now and then, when
he finds a nugget of the precious metal, his soul is all aglow with
emotion.
Palestine is more than a gold mine, it is a diamond field, to the
student of Biblical history. New truths are constantly discovered,
and old ones are seen in a new light. Each additional ray gives more
beauty, and adds new lustre, to the already resplendent gem.
To those who like novelty, and love Nature, nothing can be more
interesting than “tent life in the East.” Here one is introduced into a
world of novelties. True, the country is old; but its very age becomes
a novelty. The mountains, though shorn of their pristine beauty, though
“rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun,” have an interest all their own.
If the valleys were lakes, and the hills clothed with verdure, Syria
would be only a repetition of the highlands of Scotland. If the purple
hills of Judea towered to the skies, if they were covered with snow,
and studded with waving forest trees, the Palestine world would be
another Switzerland. If these people were Christianized, civilized, and
cultivated, they would differ but little from Europeans and Americans.
But such is not the case. The lakes were never here, and the primeval
forests disappeared a thousand years ago. Here the snow scarcely ever
falls, and the mountains are only hills, Hermon and Tabor being the
only exceptions. As for the people, they are mostly Mohammedans and
Jews. Many of them never heard of Christ, nor do they want to hear of
Him. Nineteen-twentieths of them are so illiterate that, if they were
to see a daily newspaper printed in their own language, they could not
read it. Not one in fifty could write his name on paper if it would
save his neck from the halter.
Nor is this all. The following sentence is as applicable as if it had
been written with special reference to this special country: “A land
without ruins is a land without memories; a land without memories is
a land without history. But twine a few sad cypress leaves around the
brow of any land, and, be that land bleak, barren, and beautiless, it
becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow.” Palestine is
a land of ruins. It is strewn with ruins from one end to the other.
How could it be otherwise? Has it not been the battle-ground of the
nations. Did not Belshazzer come hither from Babylon and Cyrus from
Persia? Did not Alexander come from Greece and Hannibal from Carthage?
How often did the Ptolemies of Egypt, and the Caesars of Rome, march
their devastating legions through this fair land? Think, too, of those
brave knights of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, who fought as
never men fought before, trying to wrench this Holy Land from the iron
grasp of the Saracen and Moslem. That was the darkest and bloodiest
period of this world’s history. This was the scene of action. The very
dust is historic. Every tree has heard the tramp of armies, and felt
the shock of battle. Every stone has a tale to tell. In every community
there are stories many, and legends not a few. Yes, Palestine is a
“land of ruins.” It has not a “few,” but many “sad cypress leaves
twined around its brow.” And, truly, it has become “lovely in its
consecrated coronet of sorrow.”
And more. All history is interesting, yet “crosses and crucifixions
take the deepest hold on the hearts of men.” The word Palestine is
inseparably associated with that “name which is above every name.” Here
Christ was born; here he lived; among the ancestors of these people he
“went about doing good.” In these waters He was baptized; these hills
were the pulpits from which he preached His own everlasting gospel;
while the stones of the valley, the birds of the air, and the lilies of
the field, furnished Him with apt illustrations to explain and enforce
divine truth. So in this Holy Land there are “memories which make it
holier, and a cross which is even in itself an immortality!”
Hence I ask, “can any one who likes novelty, and loves nature, who
appreciates history, and worships the Lord Jesus Christ, who has a head
on him, and a heart in him, fail to enjoy tent life in the East,” or
“five hundred miles in the saddle through Palestine and Syria?” If any,
speak; for him have I offended. Not one; then none have I offended.
So let us be up and going, taking a different route, and moving more
rapidly this time than before.
There were five in the original party, but I gladly welcome the reader
into our midst, saying to him, “Come thou and go with us and be as
eyes unto us, and we will do thee good.” Yes, “be as eyes unto us.”
We need some one to point out the road, as much so as Moses did when
he addressed this language to his gray-headed father-in-law. Indeed
there are no roads in this part of Asia, only dim bridle paths such
as have been worn in the rock by constant use for ages. Very few of
these people ever saw a wheeled vehicle of any kind. Excepting four
towns, there is not a buggy, or a wagon, or even a wheel-barrow, in all
Palestine and Syria. There are no roads for them nor for us. Hence we
must travel on horseback. Now that the reader has joined us, we are six
in number. Making calculations for the new comer, we have eight tents,
eighteen servants and muleteers, and thirty-six head of horses, mules,
and donkeys. Of course, the mules and donkeys are laden with tents
and trunks, and beds and baggage, and other things, for our comfort
and convenience, and their own board besides. They look like young
elephants with all this luggage on their backs. Each of us has a riding
suit, a broad-brimmed hat, and a white umbrella.
[Illustration: GOVERNMENT GUARDS.]
While we eat breakfast in the morning, the muleteers fold the tents
and get things ready for the road. Now Tolhamy, our Syrian dragoman,
mounts his Arabian steed and cries out, “Yal-la, yal-la,” which means
come on, come on. We follow suit, and soon all are strung out across
the country like a band of wild Indians. The procession is half a mile
long. For a while the pilgrims ride up and down the line, singing and
talking with the natives; then, plying the whip, they leave the caravan
behind. At noon, Abdo, our Arab waiter, stretches the lunch tent, or
spreads the carpet under the grateful shade of an olive grove. Lunch
being over, we sit for an hour or two reading the Bible and profane
history, talking about the battles fought in this neighborhood, about
what Christ and His apostles did here, and about the confusion their
miracles and teaching must have caused among these people. And, whether
we lunched on Mt. Tabor, whose heights are crowned with the ruins of a
crusader’s church, and at whose base Barak and Deborah met Sisera in
battle (Ju. 4: 14 and 15); or at Endor where Saul called up the witch
(1 Sam. 28); or at Joseph’s pit, from which he was sold into Egypt
(Gen. 27: 24-28): or at the spring where Gideon’s brave band of three
hundred lapped before going against the Midianites (Ju. 7): or at Cana,
where our blessed Lord turned water into wine (John 2: 1-11); or at
Nain, where He raised the man who was the only son of a widowed mother
(Luke 7: 11-17); or at Jacob’s well, where He sat and told the woman
all things that ever she did (John 4: 6-26); whether we lunch at one of
these places, or the other, or wherever we stop, we have a Bible in one
hand, and a history in the other, and always find enough to interest
and instruct us.
While we are resting, reading and talking, the caravan passes by; so,
when we come to the camp in the evening, our tents are up ready to
receive us. We usually camp near a village, so as to get water and to
place ourselves under the protection of the Sheik of the village. As
soon as our tents are pitched, the village is deserted—its half-naked,
filthy, and ignorant population having gathered round our camp.
Supper being over, the muleteers, together with the villagers, give
some kind of an entertainment. One night they have a marriage ceremony,
then an assessment and collection of taxes, an Arabic tableau, or
musical concert, without the music. There is no music in an Arab’s
soul! By this we are on good terms with the natives; we go home with
them, go into their houses, talk with them, find out how they live,
what they think about, so on. It is very seldom that we find a family
of five to eight occupying more than one room, and often the goats,
dogs and donkeys live in the same room with the other part of the
family.
The people have no tables, no chairs, no bedsteads. They sit on mats,
and sleep on pallets of straw. Whole families, sometimes ten to
twelve in number, eat out of the same bowl or pan. Knives and forks
are unknown. They live chiefly on bread and fruits. Olives, figs and
grapes are the salvation of this country. The yield of olive oil has
been greater this year than usual. I spoke a moment ago of an Asiatic
village; but I am persuaded that it deserves more than a mere mention.
I speak of the average village. It consists of a hive of rough, rock
huts one story, say six or seven feet, high, circular, oblong, or
triangular in shape. The same low, flat roof frequently extends over
half or three-fourths of the town. There are covered streets and lanes,
winding around and among the houses. A former traveler, whose book a
friend has just handed me, writes as follows:
“A Syrian village is the sorriest sight one can fancy. When you ride
through one of them at noonday, you first meet a melancholy dog that
looks up at you and silently begs that you will not run over him,
but he does not offer to get out of your way. Next you meet a young
boy without any clothes on; and he holds out his hand and says,
‘bachsheesh;’ but he really does not expect a cent, for he learned
to say that before he learned to say ‘mother,’ and he can not break
himself of it. Next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn over
her face, and her bust exposed. Finally, you meet several sore-eyed
children, and children in all stages of mutilation and decay; and,
sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a
poor human ruin whose arms and legs are gnarled and twisted like grape
vines. These are all the people you are likely to see. The balance of
the population are asleep indoors, or abroad, tending goats on the
plains and on the hillsides.”
If it is a little cold and damp, we gather around the camp fire at
night, and watch the glowing flames as they crackle and leap into the
air, and fling their wild and weird shadows right and left. Ah! what an
artist these flames are. With one bold stroke, they draw the outlines
of a perfect picture on the black canvas of night.
When it is clear and pleasant, as it usually is, we go out in front of
the tents, and talk and sing and “consider the heavens.” And often, “as
I sit and gaze into the silent sky at night, and see the myriad stars,
they seem like camp fires, kindled upon the plains of heaven, to light
some wanderer over the wastes and desolations of earth.”
It may be wrong, I suppose it is, but somehow I envy the astronomer
the pleasure he has in reading the thoughts of God, as written in the
language of the stars. I wonder if the stars are inhabited; if so, by
men or angels? What becomes of these creatures when a star “falls?” Dr.
Broadus would say that this is a good subject for a public debate, as
it can never be determined.
At ten o’clock, when the others retire to rest, I take up my pen to
record what has transpired during the day. Often the swift footed hours
pass by before I know it, and I find myself writing on “the other side
of midnight.” But I can not help it. In Palestine there is so much to
see and think about that one can not afford to sleep more than five
hours out of the twenty-four. When at last my eyes grow heavy, I drop
my leaden pen and fall asleep; and often I dream about the objects and
places I have seen during the day.
At six, often at five, o’clock, I am up to hear the morning warbler’s
first hymn of praise. I find that morning, rosy-fingered now as in the
days of Homer, “has yet a new and distant smile at every rising.” Payne
has well said that “no true lover ever yet trysted with Nature in her
own woods, and by her own fountains, without seeing some new beauty
never seen before.”
We have been in this country now for months. We have been many weeks
on horseback. We have made more than six hundred miles in the saddle
through Palestine and Syria, and yet it has not become monotonous.
Indeed, it grows on us; there is a fascination about it. Each day is
different from the day before. The roads are different, the people are
different, the scenery is not the same. New historical interests, new
biblical characters and sacred associations are hourly coming up for
conversation and thought. Josephus is no longer dry and prosy. You read
“Ben Hur,” and “The Prince of the House of David,” with more interest
than ever before; last, and greatest, the Bible—the Bible becomes a
new book to you. Its pages are brighter, its truths simpler, and its
Christ is more personal and real to you, than before you came here.
Palestine is a relief map of the Bible. In our western world, a man may
be honestly skeptical; but, if he comes to Palestine as an earnest
seeker after truth, he will soon dismiss all doubt, and, like Thomas of
old, cry out: “My Lord, and my God!”