CHAPTER XXIV—ADVENTURES IN THE MOUNTAINS OF SYRIA.
“Doing” Syria—The “Short” and the “Long” Route—How to Choose Them—Engaging a Dragoman—Farewell to Damascus—Preying on Travelers—The Wonderful Rivers of Syria—Crossing the Desert—A Picture of Desolation—Scene of St. Paul’s Conversion—A Striking Contrast—Ancient Ruins and Modern Hovels—A Night with the Bedouins—A Hard Road to Travel—A Glorious View—The “Doubter’s” Mischance—The Lizard in the Boot—A Ludicrous Scene—Gustave’s New Joke—Mollifying a Native—The Massacre at Hasbeiya—Treachery of a Turkish Colonel—Scene of Christ’s Labors—In the Holy Land.
THE “short route” of Syria and Palestine is to land at Beyrout, proceed to Damascus, by way of Mount Lebanon, and then return to Beyrout. There one takes ship to Jaffa, whence he visits Jerusalem and the country around it, and returns to Jaffa to sail away to Egypt or some other country.
The “long route” is to land at Beyrout and proceed to Damascus, as before. From Damascus one goes overland by Tiberias to Jerusalem, and, after seeing the Holy City and surrounding country, takes ship at Jaffa. This route may be reversed by landing at Jaffa and taking ship at Beyrout.
From Damascus to Jerusalem, by the “long route,” is a horseback journey of seventeen days. It may be shortened by rapid travel, and extended to any limit; if you hire the dragoman and his outfit by the day, the longer you make the time the better he will be pleased.
The spring is the best time of the year for making this excursion, as it comes between the period of “the early and the latter rain.” There are no carriage roads in this part of the country,
and the traveller must make up his mind to the discomforts of a saddle and to lodging in a tent. A dragoman will undertake to supply him with everything—horses, tents, food, bedding, and all—for a stipulated price, which varies with the size of the party, the time of year, and various other circumstances. I shall have more to say on this subject in another place, and will jump at once into the saddle without wasting time upon preliminaries. The long route was impracticable for our party at the time we were in Syria, but I gave it a very careful study, and from the sources at my command obtained the fullest information concerning it. Let us undertake a journey by this ancient way, and we will carry the “Doubter” along with us. He can’t be spared.
We leave Damascus by the Salahiyeh suburb, passing along a paved road and making a gentle ascent that gives us a good view of the city every time we choose to turn our heads. Some of the houses in this suburb are quite good, and we are not surprised to learn that many of the merchants of Damascus make their residence here. As we reach the end of the large village we pass some ruined mosques and tombs, but we have seen so many of these things that our attention is hardly attracted by them. The Moslems of the past must have been more devout than are their descendants of to-day, as they built a great many edifices for religious and memorial purposes, to which very little attention is paid at present. The Syrian Moslem does not seem to care for the antique any more than does his Turkish brother; there may be exceptions, but I think the rule holds good. For the ruins of Baalbek and Palmyra, the Syrian has no veneration except for their money-making qualities; the few people that live near them are not attracted to either spot by any love for it, but solely because it is a good place for “backsheesh.” Take away the tourist and his gold and silver and the natives would move elsewhere.
I am the more severe on these worldly-minded Syrians, who remain unmoved in the face of the stupendous remains of a past age when I contrast them with the guides and runners, hackmen-and peddlers, hotel-keepers and hotel-waiters, who assemble at Niagara and similar places in America. At Palmyra, or at the Pyramids, the Arabs pester you for “backsheesh,” and greatly mar your interest and pleasure. But at Niagara did any one ever hear of such conduct on the part of the men who make their living there? The noble qualities of the American (generally a naturalized one), come out strongly at Niagara; the beauty and sublimity of the cataract never fail to impress the resident with the sense of his duties to his fellow-man, and while the Arab will endeavor to make you pay ten times what you ought, his Niagara prototype is satisfied with five times, provided he knows he cannot possibly lie you out of any more. I have been at Niagara and Long Branch, the White Mountains and the Yosemite Valley, and thus speak knowingly. And whenever an Arab endeavored to defraud me I thought how much better things were at the fashionable resorts in my own country, and derived much consolation from the reflection.
We take a last view of Damascus from a point where the road crosses a hill about five hundred feet above the city, and nearly two miles away. We see the valley of the Abana in all its loveliness, and realize how much is due to this river and its never-failing waters. We can fully understand the pride with which the native of Damascus contemplates this perennial stream and do not wonder at the reply of Naaman, when told to wash in Jordan. The river is made all the more lovely by its fringe of trees and the wide-spreading gardens where it flows, and the greenness of the foliage is rendered all the more apparent when we contrast it with the barren hills around. The river, divided here and there into several streams, foams and ripples through the glen that leads it down from the mountains to the plain below. Our road lies along this glen, and we suddenly leave it and emerge upon the plain of Dimas.
The change is quite abrupt, from the rich verdure of the valley to the sterility of the Desert, for this plain is really a desert in miniature. The soil is hard and dry, more like flint than earth, and, if you happen to traverse it in summer, you find the heat is intense. It happened to be raining when I crossed this plain, and moreover, it was in the winter, so that I escaped the sensation of undergoing a torture by roasting. It is difficult to realize that such a barren waste can exist so near such a charming city as Damascus. The plain is about ten miles across, and from one side to the other there is not a green thing to be seen, unless the traveller may consider himself one.
After crossing the plain of Dimas we enter the mountains, where we find a few pleasant valleys and ravines, and have some rugged scenery that is not disagreeable. From one of the passes the guide points out another road, which leads more to the eastward, and where the scene of Saul’s conversion is located. There seems to be some difference of opinion about the exact locality, and I suspect that nobody knows the real state of things.
The tradition which locates the conversion there dates back to the time of the Crusades. Some authorities make the scene of the conversion almost under the walls of Damascus, and others within a mile or two of that place. It all depends upon what is meant by “near Damascus.” If we were at San Francisco, and speaking of Albany, we might say “it is near New York,” but should hardly use the expression if we were at Trenton or Hartford. However, it makes no difference about the conversion; we know it happened on the road from Jerusalem, and was near Damascus, so that a mile or two is of no consequence.
We pass several villages and wind among the hills, and in some of the villages, or near them, we find the remains of temples which were doubtless magnificent in their time. They are supposed to have been dedicated to the worship of the sun, though their history and origin are unknown. We are in front of the mountain of Hermon, known here as Jebelesh-Sheik, and it is observable that in several places the temples are made to face it, leading to the supposition that the mountain was an object of veneration and worship.
We pass the night in our camp, at the little village of Rasheiya; we are not in the village, but near enough to enable the beggars and the lame, halt, and blind to find us without trouble and ask for “backsheesh,” which they are sure to do. The white top of Mount Hermon rises above us, and we look upon it with longing eyes. Who will join me in climbing it?
We will divide the party for a day. We will put the “Doubter” with the rest of the mules and send them around to Hasbeiya, where they can wait till we get down on the other side of Hermon. We will start before daybreak, climb the mountain, and, by making sharp work of it, can get down to camp in season for a late supper. We shall feel as tired as though we had been run through a rolling mill; climbing Mount Hermon is serious business, and a thing to do once. Nobody would undertake it a second time, for the mere pleasure of the trip.
Hermon is, with one exception, the highest mountain in Syria, Lebanon being the most elevated. Its summit, or rather its highest summit, for it has three peaks, is about ten thousand feet above the sea level, and for the greater part of the year is covered with snow. In fact the snow remains there the entire year, as there are certain ravines and valleys where it never disappears completely, but lies in sloping streaks visible at a great distance. The mountain is of gray limestone, like Lebanon, and as one looks up its sides there is an aspect of almost complete barrenness. The central peak is entirely destitute of vegetation, with the exception of a few thorny bushes that seem to cling there in utter hopelessness.
The view from the summit is magnificent, and well repays us for our trouble. On the north we have the ranges of Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon, with the valley of Bukaâ between them. To the east is the plain of Arabia, spreading out like an ocean, and dotted here and there with ranges and clusters of hills that look not unlike islands. Southward is the Sea of Galilee, and beyond it we can trace the deep valley of the Jordan till it is lost in the distance and shut in by the mountains of Gilead and Samaria. We can see the sunlight playing on the waters of the blue Mediterranean in the west, and trace the coast line, with all its sinuosities, from Mount Carmel to Tyre and Sidon. At our feet and all below us the mountains and valleys, rivers and ravines, are traceable, and as we turn around the points of compass from north back to north again, a beautiful panorama is revealed to us.
On one of the summits of Hermon there are the ruins of a small temple; they are on the very top and near the edge of a cliff, and the character of the work indicates great antiquity.
Their history is unknown. But careful students of the Bible have connected them with certain passages which seem to show that the temples were used for purposes of idolatry.
We descend and rejoin our companions at Hasbeiya, where we
find the “Doubter” in trouble with a native. He took off his boots to cool his feet after getting into camp, and while the boots were lying on the ground a lizard crept into one of them and nestled down into the toe. When he attempted to don them again the lizard was in the way, and the old fellow danced around as if he had been educated for an organ grinder’s monkey. The nimbleness and desperate energy of his movements, as he vainly endeavored, in his excited state, to pull off his boot, was a performance that the astonished natives had never before witnessed.
He tugged and twisted, and hopped about on one leg, in a very expert and fantastic style.
Finally he removed the boot and out came the lizard, one of those harmless, pretty little things that are found all through Syria. One of the natives had witnessed his contortions, and on seeing the very slight cause for it the impudent aboriginal laughed.
This was very wrong for him to do, and also very rare, for the Syrians are a solemn race and about as little inclined to risibility as an Indian.
The “Doubter” accused the native of putting the lizard into the boot and called the dragoman to translate the accusation. Native denied the charge and wanted “backsheesh” as a salve to his wounded honor. The “Doubter” wouldn’t give it, and thus is the situation when we arrive from Mount Hermon.
“Go away, boy, go away,” he repeats in the intervals of the demand for “backsheesh.” The boy does not heed the remark and grows more importunate as he sees we do not take sides with the “Doubter.”
“Isn’t this Hasbeiya?” Gustave says, with a twinkle in his eye.
I nod and speak assent.
“You must give him something at once,” says Gustave, turning to the skeptic. “This place is the most dangerous in all Syria. The majority of the inhabitants are Chrétiens, and will murder you on the slightest provocation. If that boy goes away unpaid, after you have doubted his honor, he will bring down a dozen or more armed men and your life won’t be worth three centimes.”
The “Doubter” is incredulous, but there is enough in Gustave’s statement to alarm him, and we see that he changes color. After a moment’s hesitation he suggests that Gustave had better pay the boy and send him away if the place is so very dangerous.
“That will never do,” responds Gustave, “you have committed the offense and it is you they will be after. Do you see those men in front of that house? They know something is wrong. Give the boy half a franc and send him away.”
The “Doubter” reluctantly draws half a franc from his pocket and places it in the boy’s hand. He is suspicious that he has been hoaxed, but he has some regard for his continued stay on this planet and is willing to pay a small sum. But rather than give a franc he would take the chances. One must draw a line somewhere, you know.
Before 1860 Hasbeiya contained a population of about five thousand, four-fifths of them Christians. It was the scene of one of the most terrible massacres of that year. The town stands in a glen, and is surrounded on three sides by high hills which are terraced and covered with vineyards, and fig and olive trees. In a secure place on a rocky ridge is a strong building formerly the palace of a local chieftain, and capable of resisting any attack with small arms. In 1860 it had a garrison of two hundred soldiers commanded by a Turkish colonel, and when the Christians were attacked by the Druzes they appealed to the Colonel for protection. He gave them a written guarantee of safety on condition that they should come into the palace and surrender their weapons, which they did. They were then kept for seven days in the palace and at the end of that time the colonel ordered the gates thrown open. The Druzes were admitted, and the Christians to the number of a thousand were massacred. The soldiers of the garrison did not join in the massacre, but they prevented the Christians fleeing or seeking concealment, and in some instances pushed them forward to be killed. The Colonel was afterward tried, condemned and shot, at Damascus, by order of the British Commissioner, Lord Dufferin. He (the Colonel) insisted that he was acting under authority of his superiors, and the belief is very prevalent that the whole series of massacres was covertly ordered from Constantinople.
From Hasbeiya we take an early start and ride to Banias through a rough and picturesque country, fairly wooded for Syria and containing frequent olive groves. We pass a lot of villages, each looking so much like the other that it is not worth while to try to make much distinction between them. We pass near one of the sources of the Jordan, a fountain that has flowed without cessation for unknown thousands of years, and will probably flow on for thousands of years to come. One of the villages on the route contains the tomb or one of the tombs, of Nimrod, the mighty hunter. Very little is left of it—about as much as there is of Nimrod himself.
Banias, better known as Cesarea-Philippi, is picturesquely situated. A mountain crowned by a ruined castle overlooks abroad terrace which commands a fine view of mountain and plain. The ruins of the city and the huts of the modern town are situated on this terrace, and the spot reflects creditably on the man who chose it. I don’t think he is around now, as he performed his work a good while before King Solomon was thought of. The time of the foundation is unknown, but it is certain that a city stood here at a very early date. The name Banias comes from Panias or Panium; the Greek settlers in Syria established here a temple to the worship of the God Pan and from the establishment of the temple a city grew up.
The ruins are of considerable extent, and comprise among other things a citadel, inclosing a quadrangle of four acres or more within massive walls. The modern village is within this citadel, and contains forty or fifty huts and houses built with flat roofs, like nearly all houses in Syria. How are the mighty fallen! The walls of the city have suffered from earthquakes and vandalism, but more especially from the roots of plants and trees that have forced the stones apart. The same is the case with the castle that overlooks the town at an elevation of quite a thousand feet. A steep path leads up to the castle and it requires an hour of toilsome climbing to reach the top of the hill. The castle has a curious shape; it is about a thousand feet long by two hundred broad, and narrows considerably in the centre, so that it looks like two castles side by side. Many of the stones composing the walls are of great size, for such an elevation; they are frequently ten or twelve feet long, and accurately hewn and dressed. One can spend hours in the castle studying its construction and looking out upon the beautiful panorama that greets the eye from its walls. Antiquarians and archaeologists are at variance concerning this castle; some of them give it an existence from a period long before the Christian Era, while others think it is not more than twelve or fifteen hundred years old.
The city did not become prominent in history until the time of Herod the Great. Josephus relates that “Herod having accompanied Cæsar to the sea and returned home erected to him a beautiful temple of white marble near the palace called Pentium. This is a fine cave in a mountain under which there is a great cavity in the earth, abrupt, deep and full of water. Over it hangs a vast mountain; and under the cavern rise the springs of the river Jordan. Herod adorned this place, which was already a remarkable one, still farther by the erection of this temple which he dedicated to Cæsar.”
The description is accurate. The temple is gone, but there are Greek inscriptions and sculptured niches on the face of the cliff which were made at the time the temple was erected. The great fountain which forms the principal source of the Jordan bursts from the side of the cliff through a cavern, now partially choked with rough rocks and fragments of ancient buildings. The waters roll and break through a rocky channel as they begin their course down the deep ravine which leads them on and on till they are swallowed in the dark and gloomy bosom of the Dead Sea.
Hermon, the high mountain, is in front of us, and its triple summit stands cold and majestic now as it stood in the days that were made memorable by the recorded miracles of Christ.
CHAPTER XV—“FROM DAN TO BEERSHEBA.”—JOURNEYING THROUGH THE HOLY LAND.
Our first morning in Palestine—Breaking Camp at Banias—“From Dan to Beer-sheba”—Explanation of the phrase—The Cup of the Hills—The Golden Calf of Jeroboam—Story of Vishnu and his Idol—An Incident and its Moral—The Battlefields of Joshua—A singular species of Plough—The “Doubter” in a quandary—Joseph’s Pit—The Sea of Galilee—Fishing with Poisoned Bait—Capernaum and its Ruins—Scene of Christ’s Miracles—The Birthplace of Mary Magdalen—A horde of Beggars—A Pitiful Spectacle—The Robber’s Cave—Herod and his Strategy—The Jews of Tiberias—A Seedy Crowd—Ruins of the Ancient City—The spot where Christ fed the Multitude.
IN the morning we are roused by the voice of the dragoman or one of his servants, and have half an hour for dressing. We rise reluctantly, for we are still weary from the fatigues of yesterday, and how we do wish for just a few minutes more.
The “Doubter” pulls at the handle of the Judge’s umbrella, under the impression that it is a bell-knob, and sleepily asks for a cocktail. But there is nothing of the kind to be had, and after grumbling at everybody and everything, he proceeds to his toilet and soon comes out with an appearance suggestive of an Italian brigand who has had a run of bad luck.
While we are at breakfast, the men strike the tents and are off. They go straight to our camping place for the coming night, so that they will have everything ready by the time we arrive. One pack-horse and a servant with the lunch remains with us, and they and their burden come in very handy about noon. We have no trouble in getting up good appetites in this clear air of Palestine, though unfortunately it is a trifle too warm for comfort. A rugged path, where the rocks threaten to give us some dangerous tumbles, brings us to Tell-el-Kady, about four miles from Banias. This place is better known as Dan. Who has not heard of going “from Dan to Beersheba?” The latter place—Bir-es-seba, or “well of the covenant”—is on the southern border of Palestine, while Dan is on the northern. Consequently, “from Dan to Beersheba” means “from one end of the country to the other.” The identity of the site cannot be doubted, as the place is clearly described in Biblical and other history, and the remains of the ancient city are here.
There is a sort of cup-shaped mound here, in a plain, less than a hundred feet above it, and possibly a thousand yards across. The whole place is covered with a tangle of brushwood and weeds, and if we take the trouble to penetrate this thicket, we shall find hewn stones, broken columns, and other indications of the city that has passed away. There are some oak trees here, and one of them can boast of considerable size. It is one of the oaks of Bashan, and others can be seen on the mountain near us, and dotting in irregular patches various parts of the landscape. The oaks of Bashan are less famous now than they were three thousand years ago.
History tells us that this was once a Phoenician settlement, under the name of Laish, and was captured by some Danites, who changed its name to Dan. They took things easily, and had a good time, and whenever there was a chance to make an honest penny by a little robbery, they were up to the scratch.
Dan is mentioned in the first book of Kings (xii. 28-32) as one of the places where Jeroboam erected a golden calf.
Jeroboam understood human nature, when he selected gold as the metal of which the calf should be made. Brass would have been just as bright, but it has its defects, and the chief one is a lack of intrinsic value.
Vishnu once appeared in the guise of a beggar to a Brahmin who was superintending the erection and dedication of a temple in one of the sacred groves of India. The temple was complete, and the Brahmin was directing his fellows how to place the pedestal for the idol which he was just taking out of the box. He removed the straw and wrappings, and brought to light an idol of common wood, with pieces of white porcelain for eyes.
“Stop, O, Brahmin,” said the beggar. “Erect not that wooden idol, for your temple will then be no more than others.”
“But make an idol of pure gold, and give it a pair of diamonds for eyes, and the whole world will come here to worship.”
The beggar waved his hand, and behold! an idol such as he had described stood upon the pedestal. The Brahmin turned to thank the stranger, but he had disappeared.
And that shrine has ever been the most sacred in all the land of India.
The Brahmin sent the wooden idol back to the factory, and they accepted it at twenty per cent. off, less the freight and charges for repacking. And they sold it to a retail cigar dealer, who used it for a sign in front of his shop.
The most interesting thing at Dan is the great fountain of the Jordan. It bursts out at the western, base of the mound, and forms a small pond, and out of this pond flows the stream, the largest in all Syria from a single source.
Less than an hour from Dan, over, a stony and marshy plain, brings us to Ain Belat, another fountain, and there is another of the same sort not far away. There is nothing particularly interesting here, and so we go on to Ain Mellahah, where we find the tents waiting for us near an old mill that stands by the spring.
Lake Huleh, a sheet of water about three miles by four, is close at hand, but it has no intrinsic attractions.
All around the lake is a marshy ground, spreading out on the North into a plain, that has some claims to fertility. The Bedouins cultivate it after a fashion, and some speculators have bought ground there and leased it out to the natives.
Syrian agriculture is of a very primitive kind. They use, in this country, the root of a tree for a plough, and they do little more than scratch the soil. An American plough, either ‘breaker’ or ‘subsoil,’ would drive the natives into confluent hysterics, and the sight of a steam-plough turning half, a dozen furrows at once would strike them dead with astonishment.
The first time the “Doubter” saw one of these Syrian scrapers, he asked what it was. When we told him it was a plough, he said he knew better, and we needn’t try to “play it on him.” Then we thought it might be a horse-rake or a wheel-barrow, possibly a brake to attach to a fiery saddle-horse to keep him from descending a hill too fast.
Then we concluded it might be a pillow or a tooth-pick, and finally a part of the equipment of a lunatic asylum. The “Doubter” at length concluded it was a weapon of warfare, and with this wise conclusion he dropped the subject.
Our forenoon’s ride from this camp is a dreary one. We have five hours of it, or nearly that period, in a wild country overlooking the valley of the Jordan on the left, and having no attractions of its own. It is a scene of desolation. There were no trees—scarcely is there any vegetation, and the only inhabitants are people who live somewhere else. The hot, dry landscape is unforbidding in every feature, and only the historic character of the country rewards us for our trouble.
We come to a wretched Khan, which is said to contain the pit into which Joseph was thrown before he was sold by his brethren. The authenticity of the story rests only upon tradition, and there are two or three other places in the country which claim to be the real, original, Joseph’s pit. They show us the hole, which is certainly capable of containing a man. The “Doubter” does not believe it is the real pit, because he cannot see the footprints of the fellows that flung their brother in. Some one tells the story of the New York boot-black, who was induced one day to go to Sunday school. The teacher told the story of Joseph and asked:
“What did Joseph’s brethren put him in the pit for?”
“I know,” said the gamin, with a confident air.
“Then tell us.”
“Fifteen cents!” shouted the young vagabond.
He was a frequenter of the old Bowery Theater, and familiar with the prices at that establishment.
But we are in haste to go on; for before us is the Sea of Galilee, shimmering under the scorching rays of a Syrian sun. It lies deep-set in a basin of rough, barren mountains, and its surface, as we first look upon it, is very far below us. If any of us have pictured a lake, surrounded with luxuriant fields and shady groves, its waves kissing the feet of waving palms, and reflecting the rich foliage of the tropics, we are doomed to disappointment. It is a scene of desolation, akin to that revealed when we look from the bleak hills beyond Bethlehem, and cast our vision downward to the Dead Sea. The country must have undergone a great change in the past two thousand years, as we cannot understand how it could support the population that history accords to it.
The lake is oval in shape, and about thirteen miles long by six in width, and where there were many boats in Christ’s time, there are now only two. These are devoted more to the ferriage of travellers and their excursions to points of interest along the shores, than to the fisheries. A favorite mode of catching fish at the present time is to poison them with bread crumbs soaked in corrosive sublimate. The fish die, and rise to the surface, whence they are gathered and taken to the market of Tiberias for sale. The natives do not mind any little trifle like this, but foreigners should be cautious about the fish that they eat.
All around the shore of the lake is historic ground. We reach it at Capernaum, or rather at one of the three points claimed to be the site of that city, and known by the modern name of Khan Minyeh. It has, perhaps, the best claims to recognition, but I shall not attempt to say that it is or is not the real place. The ruins are not extensive, and can be seen in a short time. Traces of foundations and walls of buildings can be found here and there among the brushwood, and now and then a broken column or capital rewards the search of the explorer.
Proceeding along the western bank of the lake, we reach Magdala, the birth-place of Mary Magdalene. The shore of the lake in this part is quite fertile, but the fertility is not utilized, except to a very slight degree. Game is not unknown here, but the varieties are not numerous. Quails are abundant, and so are turtle doves. “The voice of the turtle is heard in the land,” is sure to be repeated by some one of the party as we ride through the tangle of thistles, weeds, and brushwood that lines the way from Capernaum to Magdala.
In itself, and without its historic associations, Magdala is of very little consequence. It contains about twenty houses, of the Syrian pattern, flat-roofed, and not over-pleasing in appearance. There are ruins of houses of a more pretentious character, and the indications are general that there was once a town here, of some consequence.
The inhabitants come out of their squalid dwellings and beg for anything we choose to give. Money, old clothes, defaulted railway bonds, State bonds, shares in a petroleum company, cold meat, bound volumes of newspaper files, and anything else can be included in the word “backsheesh.” It is a generic, not a specific, term, and those who continually din into your ears the supplication, “Backsheesh, O Howadji!” are not at all particular about what they receive.
It is a good dodge to get the first innings on them once in a while. When you catch sight of a native approaching you, it is morally certain that he intends to beg. Take the bull by the horns, approach him and ask for “backsheesh.” He will generally see the point, though he does not always do so.
We have time to take a little run to some curious caves that lie in a cliff about half an hour’s ride from Magdala. A steep and narrow path leads to them, and while we are climbing it we see how easily the caves could be defended. Their origin and history are unknown, and they were evidently the work, not of one, but of several, generations. They are mentioned by Josephus as fortified caverns, belonging to the city of Arbela, whose ruins are close at hand. At various periods they have been the resort of bandits, and probably would be so at present if the bandit business was at all profitable. Herod the Great had an unpleasantness with some free-booting gentlemen who dwelt in these caves. They made things disagreeable for travellers and others, and would not divide with the King, and so he sent an army to teach them better manners and bring their heads home in carpet-sacks. But the fellows defended their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor so desperately, and had so good a place to defend them in, that the army couldn’t gain a point on them.
But Gen. Herod knew a thing or two, and after scratching his head awhile over the problem, he sent for his carpenters and blacksmiths and ordered them to get their tools ready and then come before him at five o’clock the next morning.
They came, they saw, (each carpenter had one,) and they concurred with him.
“Go,” said the general to the carpenters, “and make some boxes of strong plank, about six feet square and four feet high. Make them as strong as you would a travelling trunk for a thousand-mile journey on an American railway.”
Then turning to the blacksmiths he said:
“And you, sons of Vulcan, get up lots of ox-chains, strong enough to support these boxes with a thousand pounds in each.”
“A thousand pounds, in sovereigns, will weigh more than the same amount in five-pun notes,” said the boss blacksmith, musingly. “Does Your Majesty pay gold or paper?”
“A thousand pounds avoirdupois, you idiot,” replied the King. The blacksmith apologized, and whispered to his neighbor that he thought it would turn out so, as the King was hard up, and couldn’t raise five hundred guineas in a month unless he stole them.
The boxes were made, and the ferblantiers and charpentiers wondered what the king could be about. When they were ready,
he put a dozen infantry men with plenty of carbines and revolvers and supplies of provisions and ammunition into each box, and lowered the whole lot of them simultaneously down the face of the cliff above the canals. Thus the soldiers were enabled to make it nasty for the robbers. They killed most of them, and what they didn’t kill they flung over the face of the precipice.
We will not go back to Magdala, as there is a shorter route to Tiberias, which is our next point of interest. As our cavalcade enters the town, the inhabitants turn out to greet us, and we hear a word we think we have heard before—“backsheesh.” The people differ materially from those of Magdala and Capernaum, in being more numerous; in other respects there is a marked similarity. They wear the same amount of dirt, rags, and sore eyes, and an ophthalmist could make a fortune here, provided he could get rich by practicing without fees. There are about two thousand inhabitants, one-third of them Jews, and they are a very seedy and unhappy lot of Israelites. I presume that those who are born in Tiberias want to die there, and to look at them one would think that they ought to wish to die as soon as possible.
Tiberias is a sacred place for the Jews, as they believe that the Messiah will rise from the sea of Galilee, and after landing in the city will proceed to the summit of Mount Safed, which is not far away. Comparatively few of the Jews speak Arabic; they are divided into two sects, one of Russian and the other of Spanish origin, so that they use the languages of the countries whence they or their ancestors came. They are not on the best of terms with their neighbors, and live in a part of the town assigned to them.
Tiberias once had a wall; the remains of it are there yet, and it was in tolerable condition until about forty years ago, when an earthquake played the mischief with it and left it full of great gaps and cracks that are anything but pleasing. Your earthquake, a real, first-class one, is a consummation not devoutly to be wished.
The ancient city is scattered promiscuously along the shore of the lake, but there isn’t enough of it to make more than half-a-dozen hog-yards. The modern town has absorbed nearly all that was worth absorbing.
There is a Latin convent at Tiberias, with a church attached to it, which is regarded with veneration by many Christian pilgrims. Like Jerusalem, Tiberias is a sacred spot for both Christian and Jew, and thousands of Jews consider it a blessing to be buried there, and it certainly would be a blessing to bury those that we see in Tiberias. It was at one time their chief residence in Palestine, and was their most prominent city for more than three hundred years. Tiberias has been in the hands of Jews, Persians, Arabs, and Crusaders, and has had the usual misfortunes of Oriental towns.
There are some warm baths near Tiberias, and they are highly recommended to strangers. The natives never patronize these baths or any other. The only time a Syrian washes himself is when he gets caught in a shower, without an umbrella, and can’t find any shelter, or get home.
All around the lake there are historic spots. Days could be spent in a study of the places whose names have been made familiar to us by a perusal of the Old and New Testaments.
