The Lands of the Saracen - Bayard Taylor
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Between Ramleh and the hill-country, a distance of about eight miles, is
the rolling plain of Arimathea, and this, as well as the greater part of
the plain of Sharon, is one of the richest districts in the world. The
soil is a dark-brown loam, and, without manure, produces annually superb
crops of wheat and barley. We rode for miles through a sea of wheat,
waving far and wide over the swells of land. The tobacco in the fields
about Ramleh was the most luxuriant I ever saw, and the olive and fig
attain a size and lusty strength wholly unknown in Italy. Judea cursed of
God! what a misconception, not only of God's mercy and beneficence, but of
the actual fact! Give Palestine into Christian hands, and it will again
flow with milk and honey. Except some parts of Asia Minor, no portion of
the Levant is capable of yielding such a harvest of grain, silk, wool,
fruits, oil, and wine. The great disadvantage under which the country
labors, is its frequent drouths, but were the soil more generally
cultivated, and the old orchards replanted, these would neither be so
frequent nor so severe.
We gradually ascended the hills, passing one or two villages, imbedded in
groves of olives. In the little valleys, slanting down to the plains, the
Arabs were still ploughing and sowing, singing the while an old love-song,
with its chorus of "_ya, ghazalee! ya, ghazalee!_" (oh, gazelle! oh,
gazelle!) The valley narrowed, the lowlands behind us spread out broader,
and in half an hour more we were threading a narrow pass, between stony
hills, overgrown with ilex, myrtle, and dwarf oak. The wild purple rose of
Palestine blossomed on all sides, and a fragrant white honeysuckle in some
places hung from the rocks. The path was terribly rough, and barely wide
enough for two persons on horseback to pass each other. We met a few
pilgrims returning from Jerusalem, and a straggling company of armed
Turks, who had such a piratical air, that without the solemn asseveration
of Francois that the road was quite safe, I should have felt uneasy about
our baggage. Most of the persons we passed were Mussulmen, few of whom
gave the customary "Peace be with you!" but once a Syrian Christian
saluted me with, "God go with you, O Pilgrim!" For two hours after
entering the mountains, there was scarcely a sign of cultivation. The rock
was limestone, or marble, lying in horizontal strata, the broken edges of
which rose like terraces to the summits. These shelves were so covered
with wild shrubs--in some places even with rows of olive trees---that to
me they had not the least appearance of that desolation so generally
ascribed to them.
In a little dell among the hills there is a small ruined mosque, or
chapel (I could not decide which), shaded by a group of magnificent
terebinth trees. Several Arabs were resting in its shade, and we hoped to
find there the water we were looking for, in order to make breakfast. But
it was not to be found, and we climbed nearly to the summit of the first
chain of hills, where in a small olive orchard, there was a cistern,
filled by the late rains. It belonged to two ragged boys, who brought us
an earthen vessel of the water, and then asked, "Shall we bring you milk,
O Pilgrims!" I assented, and received a small jug of thick buttermilk, not
remarkably clean, but very refreshing. My companion, who had not recovered
from his horror at finding that the inhabitants of Ramleh washed
themselves in the pool which supplied us and them, refused to touch it. We
made but a short rest, for it was now nearly noon, and there were yet many
rough miles between us and Jerusalem. We crossed the first chain of
mountains, rode a short distance over a stony upland, and then descended
into a long cultivated valley, running to the eastward. At the end nearest
us appeared the village of Aboo 'l Ghosh (the Father of Lies), which takes
its name from a noted Bedouin shekh, who distinguished himself a few years
ago by levying contributions on travellers. He obtained a large sum of
money in this way, but as he added murder to robbery, and fell upon Turks
as well as Christians, he was finally captured, and is now expiating his
offences in some mine on the coast of the Black Sea.
Near the bottom of the village there is a large ruined building, now used
as a stable by the inhabitants. The interior is divided into a nave and
two side-aisles by rows of square pillars, from which spring pointed
arches. The door-way is at the side, and is Gothic, with a dash of
Saracenic in the ornamental mouldings above it. The large window at the
extremity of the nave is remarkable for having round arches, which
circumstance, together with the traces of arabesque painted ornaments on
the columns, led me to think it might have been a mosque; but Dr.
Robinson, who is now here, considers it a Christian church, of the time of
the Crusaders. The village of Aboo 'l Ghosh is said to be the site of the
birth-place of the Prophet Jeremiah, and I can well imagine it to have
been the case. The aspect of the mountain-country to the east and
north-east would explain the savage dreariness of his lamentations. The
whole valley in which the village stands, as well as another which joins
it on the east, is most assiduously cultivated. The stony mountain sides
are wrought into terraces, where, in spite of soil which resembles an
American turnpike, patches of wheat are growing luxuriantly, and olive
trees, centuries old, hold on to the rocks with a clutch as hard and bony
as the hand of Death. In the bed of the valley the fig tree thrives, and
sometimes the vine and fig grow together, forming the patriarchal arbor of
shade familiar to us all. The shoots of the tree are still young and
green, but the blossoms of the grape do not yet give forth their goodly
savor. I did not hear the voice of the turtle, but a nightingale sang in
the briery thickets by the brook side, as we passed along.
Climbing out of this valley, we descended by a stony staircase, as rugged
as the Ladder of Tyre, into the Wady Beit-Hanineh. Here were gardens of
oranges in blossom, with orchards of quince and apple, overgrown with
vines, and the fragrant hawthorn tree, snowy with its bloom. A stone
bridge, the only one on the road, crosses the dry bed of a winter stream,
and, looking up the glen, I saw the Arab village of Kulonieh, at the
entrance of the valley of Elah, glorious with the memories of the
shepherd-boy, David. Our road turned off to the right, and commenced
ascending a long, dry glen between mountains which grew more sterile the
further we went. It was nearly two hours past noon, the sun fiercely hot,
and our horses were nigh jaded out with the rough road and our impatient
spurring. I began to fancy we could see Jerusalem from the top of the
pass, and tried to think of the ancient days of Judea. But it was in vain.
A newer picture shut them out, and banished even the diviner images of Our
Saviour and His Disciples. Heathen that I was, I could only think of
Godfrey and the Crusaders, toiling up the same path, and the ringing lines
of Tasso vibrated constantly in my ear:
"Ecco apparir Gierusalemm' si vede;
Ecco additar Gierusalemm' si scorge;
Ecco da mille voci unitamente,
Gierusalemme salutar si sente!"
The Palestine of the Bible--the Land of Promise to the Israelites, the
land of Miracle and Sacrifice to the Apostles and their followers--still
slept in the unattainable distance, under a sky of bluer and more tranquil
loveliness than that to whose cloudless vault I looked up. It lay as far
and beautiful as it once seemed to the eye of childhood, and the swords of
Seraphim kept profane feet from its sacred hills. But these rough rocks
around me, these dry, fiery hollows, these thickets of ancient oak and
ilex, had heard the trumpets of the Middle Ages, and the clang and
clatter of European armor--I could feel and believe that. I entered the
ranks; I followed the trumpets and the holy hymns, and waited breathlessly
for the moment when every mailed knee should drop in the dust, and every
bearded and sunburned cheek be wet with devotional tears.
But when I climbed the last ridge, and looked ahead with a sort of painful
suspense, Jerusalem did not appear. We were two thousand feet above the
Mediterranean, whose blue we could dimly see far to the west, through
notches in the chain of hills. To the north, the mountains were gray,
desolate, and awful. Not a shrub or a tree relieved their frightful
barrenness. An upland tract, covered with white volcanic rock, lay before
us. We met peasants with asses, who looked (to my eyes) as if they had
just left Jerusalem. Still forward we urged our horses, and reached a
ruined garden, surrounded with hedges of cactus, over which I saw domes
and walls in the distance. I drew a long breath and looked at Francois. He
was jogging along without turning his head; he could not have been so
indifferent if that was really the city. Presently, we reached another
slight rise in the rocky plain. He began to urge his panting horse, and at
the same instant we both lashed the spirit into ours, dashed on at a
break-neck gallop, round the corner of an old wall on the top of the hill,
and lo! the Holy City! Our Greek jerked both pistols from his holsters,
and fired them into the air, as we reined up on the steep.
From the descriptions of travellers, I had expected to see in Jerusalem an
ordinary modern Turkish town; but that before me, with its walls,
fortresses, and domes, was it not still the City of David? I saw the
Jerusalem of the New Testament, as I had imagined it. Long lines of walls
crowned with a notched parapet and strengthened by towers; a few domes and
spires above them; clusters of cypress here and there; this was all that
was visible of the city. On either side the hill sloped down to the two
deep valleys over which it hangs. On the east, the Mount of Olives,
crowned with a chapel and mosque, rose high and steep, but in front, the
eye passed directly over the city, to rest far away upon the lofty
mountains of Moab, beyond the Dead Sea. The scene was grand in its
simplicity. The prominent colors were the purple of those distant
mountains, and the hoary gray of the nearer hills. The walls were of the
dull yellow of weather-stained marble, and the only trees, the dark
cypress and moonlit olive. Now, indeed, for one brief moment, I knew that
I was in Palestine; that I saw Mount Olivet and Mount Zion; and--I know
not how it was--my sight grew weak, and all objects trembled and wavered
in a watery film. Since we arrived, I have looked down upon the city from
the Mount of Olives, and up to it from the Valley of Jehosaphat; but I
cannot restore the illusion of that first view.
We allowed our horses to walk slowly down the remaining half-mile to the
Jaffa gate. An Englishman, with a red silk shawl over his head, was
sketching the city, while an Arab held an umbrella over him. Inside the
gate we stumbled upon an Italian shop with an Italian sign, and after
threading a number of intricate passages under dark archways, and being
turned off from one hotel, which was full of travellers, reached another,
kept by a converted German Jew, where we found Dr. Robinson and Dr. Ely
Smith, who both arrived yesterday. It sounds strange to talk of a hotel
in Jerusalem, but the world is progressing, and there are already three. I
leave to-morrow for Jericho, the Jordan, and the Dead Sea, and shall have
more to say of Jerusalem on my return.
Chapter IV.
The Dead Sea and the Jordan River.
Bargaining for a Guard--Departure from Jerusalem--The Hill of
Offence--Bethany--The Grotto of Lazarus--The Valley of Fire--Scenery of
the Wilderness--The Hills of Engaddi--The shore of the Dead Sea--A
Bituminous Bath--Gallop to the Jordan--A watch for Robbers--The
Jordan--Baptism--The Plains of Jericho--The Fountain of Elisha--The
Mount of Temptation--Return to Jerusalem.
"And the spoiler shall come upon every city, and no city shall escape;
the valley also shall perish and the plain shall be destroyed, as the
Lord hath spoken."
--Jeremiah, xlviii. 8.
Jerusalem, _May_ 1, 1852.
I returned this after noon from an excursion to the Dead Sea, the River
Jordan, and the site of Jericho. Owing to the approaching heats, an early
visit was deemed desirable, and the shekhs, who have charge of the road,
were summoned to meet us on the day after we arrived. There are two of
these gentlemen, the Shekh el-Arab (of the Bedouins), and the Shekh
el-Fellaheen (of the peasants, or husbandmen), to whom each traveller is
obliged to pay one hundred piastres for an escort. It is, in fact, a sort
of compromise, by which the shekhs agree not to rob the traveller, and to
protect him against other shekhs. If the road is not actually safe, the
Turkish garrison here is a mere farce, but the arrangement is winked at by
the Pasha, who, of course, gets his share of the 100,000 piastres which
the two scamps yearly levy upon travellers. The shekhs came to our rooms,
and after trying to postpone our departure, in order to attach other
tourists to the same escort, and thus save a little expense, took half the
pay and agreed to be ready the next morning. Unfortunately for my original
plan, the Convent of San Saba has been closed within two or three weeks,
and no stranger is now admitted. This unusual step was caused by the
disorderly conduct of some Frenchmen who visited San Saba. We sent to the
Bishop of the Greek Church, asking a simple permission to view the
interior of the Convent; but without effect.
We left the city yesterday morning by St. Stephen's Gate, descended to the
Valley of Jehosaphat, rode under the stone wall which encloses the
supposed Gethsemane, and took a path leading along the Mount of Olives,
towards the Hill of Offence, which stands over against the southern end of
the city, opposite the mouth of the Vale of Hinnon. Neither of the shekhs
made his appearance, but sent in their stead three Arabs, two of whom were
mounted and armed with sabres and long guns. Our man, Mustapha, had charge
of the baggage-mule, carrying our tent and the provisions for the trip. It
was a dull, sultry morning; a dark, leaden haze hung over Jerusalem, and
the _khamseen_, or sirocco-wind, came from the south-west, out of the
Arabian Desert. We had again resumed the Oriental costume, but in spite of
an ample turban, my face soon began to scorch in the dry heat. From the
crest of the Hill of Offence there is a wide view over the heights on both
sides of the valley of the Brook Kedron. Their sides are worked into
terraces, now green with springing grain, and near the bottom planted with
olive and fig trees. The upland ridge or watershed of Palestine is
cultivated for a considerable distance around Jerusalem. The soil is light
and stony, yet appears to yield a good return for the little labor
bestowed upon it.
Crossing the southern flank of Mount Olivet, in half an hour we reached
the village of Bethany, hanging on the side of the hill. It is a miserable
cluster of Arab huts, with not a building which appears to be more than a
century old. The Grotto of Lazarus is here shown, and, of course, we
stopped to see it. It belongs to an old Mussulman, who came out of his
house with a piece of waxed rope, to light us down. An aperture opens from
the roadside into the hill, and there is barely room enough for a person
to enter. Descending about twenty steps at a sharp angle, we landed in a
small, damp vault, with an opening in the floor, communicating with a
short passage below. The vault was undoubtedly excavated for sepulchral
purposes, and the bodies were probably deposited (as in many Egyptian
tombs) in the pit under it. Our guide, however, pointed to a square mass
of masonry in one corner as the tomb of Lazarus, whose body, he informed
us, was still walled up there. There was an arch in the side of the vault,
once leading to other chambers, but now closed up, and the guide stated
that seventy-four Prophets were interred therein. There seems to be no
doubt that the present Arab village occupies the site of Bethany; and if
it could be proved that this pit existed at the beginning of the Christian
Era, and there never had been any other, we might accept it as the tomb of
Lazarus. On the crest of a high hill, over against Bethany, is an Arab
village on the site of Bethpage.
We descended into the valley of a winter stream, now filled with patches
of sparse wheat, just beginning to ripen. The mountains grew more bleak
and desolate as we advanced, and as there is a regular descent in the
several ranges over which one must pass, the distant hills of the lands of
Moab and Ammon were always in sight, rising like a high, blue wall against
the sky. The Dead Sea is 4,000 feet below Jerusalem, but the general slope
of the intervening district is so regular that from the spires of the
city, and the Mount of Olives, one can look down directly upon its waters.
This deceived me as to the actual distance, and I could scarcely credit
the assertion of our Arab escort, that it would require six hours to reach
it. After we had ridden nearly two hours, we left the Jericho road,
sending Mustapha and a staunch old Arab direct to our resting-place for
the night, in the Valley of the Jordan. The two mounted Bedouins
accompanied us across the rugged mountains lying between us and the Dead
Sea.
At first, we took the way to the Convent of Mar Saba, following the course
of the Brook Kedron down the Wady en-Nar (Valley of Fire). In half an hour
more we reached two large tanks, hewn out under the base of a limestone
cliff, and nearly filled with rain. The surface was covered with a
greenish vegetable scum, and three wild and dirty Arabs of the hills were
washing themselves in the principal one. Our Bedouins immediately
dismounted and followed their example, and after we had taken some
refreshment, we had the satisfaction of filling our water-jug from the
same sweet pool. After this, we left the San Saba road, and mounted the
height east of the valley. From that point, all signs of cultivation and
habitation disappeared. The mountains were grim, bare, and frightfully
rugged. The scanty grass, coaxed into life by the winter rains, was
already scorched out of all greenness; some bunches of wild sage,
gnaphalium, and other hardy aromatic herbs spotted the yellow soil, and in
sheltered places the scarlet poppies burned like coals of fire among the
rifts of the gray limestone rock. Our track kept along the higher ridges
and crests of the hills, between the glens and gorges which sank on either
hand to a dizzy depth below, and were so steep as to be almost
inaccessible. The region is so scarred, gashed and torn, that no work of
man's hand can save it from perpetual desolation. It is a wilderness more
hopeless than the Desert. If I were left alone in the midst of it, I
should lie down and await death, without thought or hope of rescue.
The character of the day was peculiarly suited to enhance the impression
of such scenery. Though there were no clouds, the sun was invisible: as
far as we could see, beyond the Jordan, and away southward to the
mountains of Moab and the cliffs of Engaddi, the whole country was covered
as with the smoke of a furnace; and the furious sirocco, that threatened
to topple us down the gulfs yawning on either hand, had no coolness on its
wings. The horses were sure-footed, but now and then a gust would come
that made them and us strain against it, to avoid being dashed against the
rock on one side, or hurled off the brink on the other. The atmosphere was
painfully oppressive, and by and by a dogged silence took possession of
our party. After passing a lofty peak which Francois called Djebel Nuttar,
the Mountain of Rain, we came to a large Moslem building, situated on a
bleak eminence, overlooking part of the valley of the Jordan. This is the
tomb called Nebbee Moussa by the Arabs, and believed by them to stand
upon the spot where Moses died. We halted at the gate, but no one came to
admit us, though my companion thought he saw a man's head at one of the
apertures in the wall. Arab tradition here is as much at fault as
Christian tradition in many other places. The true Nebo is somewhere in
the chain of Pisgah; and though, probably, I saw it, and all see it who go
down to the Jordan, yet "no man knoweth its place unto this day."
Beyond Nebbee Moussa, we came out upon the last heights overlooking the
Dead Sea, though several miles of low hills remained to be passed. The
head of the sea was visible as far as the Ras-el-Feshka on the west; and
the hot fountains of Callirhoe on the eastern shore. Farther than this,
all was vapor and darkness. The water was a soft, deep purple hue,
brightening into blue. Our road led down what seemed a vast sloping
causeway from the mountains, between two ravines, walled by cliffs several
hundred feet in height. It gradually flattened into a plain, covered with
a white, saline incrustation, and grown with clumps of sour willow,
tamarisk, and other shrubs, among which I looked in vain for the osher, or
Dead Sea apple. The plants appeared as if smitten with leprosy; but there
were some flowers growing almost to the margin of the sea. We reached the
shore about 2 P.M. The heat by this time was most severe, and the air so
dense as to occasion pains in my ears. The Dead Sea is 1,300 feet below
the Mediterranean, and without doubt the lowest part of the earth's
surface. I attribute the oppression I felt to this fact and to the
sultriness of the day, rather than to any exhalation from the sea itself.
Francois remarked, however, that had the wind--which by this time was
veering round to the north-east--blown from the south, we could scarcely
have endured it. The sea resembles a great cauldron, sunk between
mountains from three to four thousand feet in height; and probably we did
not experience more than a tithe of the summer heat.
I proposed a bath, for the sake of experiment, but Francois endeavored to
dissuade us. He had tried it, and nothing could be more disagreeable; we
risked getting a fever, and, besides, there were four hours of dangerous
travel yet before us. But by this time we were half undressed, and soon
were floating on the clear bituminous waves. The beach was fine gravel and
shelved gradually down. I kept my turban on my head, and was careful to
avoid touching the water with my face. The sea was moderately warm and
gratefully soft and soothing to the skin. It was impossible to sink; and
even while swimming, the body rose half out of the water. I should think
it possible to dive for a short distance, but prefer that some one else
would try the experiment. With a log of wood for a pillow, one might sleep
as on one of the patent mattresses. The taste of the water is salty and
pungent, and stings the tongue like saltpetre. We were obliged to dress in
all haste, without even wiping off the detestable liquid; yet I
experienced very little of that discomfort which most travellers have
remarked. Where the skin had been previously bruised, there was a slight
smarting sensation, and my body felt clammy and glutinous, but the bath
was rather refreshing than otherwise.
We turned our horses' heads towards the Jordan, and rode on over a dry,
barren plain. The two Bedouins at first dashed ahead at full gallop,
uttering cries, and whirling their long guns in the air. The dust they
raised was blown in our faces, and contained so much salt that my eyes
began to smart painfully. Thereupon I followed them at an equal rate of
speed, and we left a long cloud of the accursed soil whirling behind us.
Presently, however, they fell to the rear, and continued to keep at some
distance from us. The reason of this was soon explained. The path turned
eastward, and we already saw a line of dusky green winding through the
wilderness. This was the Jordan, and the mountains beyond, the home of
robber Arabs, were close at hand. Those robbers frequently cross the river
and conceal themselves behind the sand-hills on this side. Our brave
escort was, therefore, inclined to put us forward as a forlorn-hope, and
secure their own retreat in case of an attack. But as we were all well
armed, and had never considered their attendance as anything more than a
genteel way of buying them off from robbing us, we allowed them to lag as
much as they chose. Finally, as we approached the Pilgrims' Ford, one of
them took his station at some distance from the river, on the top of a
mound, while the other got behind some trees near at hand; in order, as
they said, to watch the opposite hills, and alarm us whenever they should
see any of the Beni Sukrs, or the Beni Adwams, or the Tyakh, coming down
upon us.
The Jordan at this point will not average more than ten yards in breadth.
It flows at the bottom of a gully about fifteen feet deep, which traverses
the broad valley in a most tortuous course. The water has a white, clayey
hue, and is very swift. The changes of the current have formed islands and
beds of soil here and there, which are covered with a dense growth of ash,
poplar, willow, and tamarisk trees. The banks of the river are bordered
with thickets, now overgrown with wild vines, and fragrant with flowering
plants. Birds sing continually in the cool, dark coverts of the trees. I
found a singular charm in the wild, lonely, luxuriant banks, the tangled
undergrowth, and the rapid, brawling course of the sacred stream, as it
slipped in sight and out of sight among the trees. It is almost impossible
to reach the water at any other point than the Ford of the Pilgrims, the
supposed locality of the passage of the Israelites and the baptism of
Christ. The plain near it is still blackened by the camp-fires of the ten
thousand pilgrims who went down from Jerusalem three weeks ago, to bathe.
We tied our horses to the trees, and prepared to follow their example,
which was necessary, if only to wash off the iniquitous slime of the Dead
Sea. Francois, in the meantime, filled two tin flasks from the stream and
stowed them in the saddle-bags. The current was so swift, that one could
not venture far without the risk of being carried away; but I succeeded in
obtaining a complete and most refreshing immersion. The taint of Gomorrah
was not entirely washed away, but I rode off with as great a sense of
relief as if the baptism had been a moral one, as well, and had purified
me from sin.