CHAPTER XXVI—IN THE HEART OF PALESTINE.
Bathing in the Sea of Galilee—Standing on holy ground—How the “Doubter” was unhorsed—A second Absalom—Lunching on the summit of Tabor—Saracenic Vengeance—A Reminiscence of the Crusades—A magnificent Sight—Discussing “Backsheesh” with the natives—The “Doubter” as a Cashier—The Grotto of the Holy Family—Mary’s house—The house of Loretto—The story of the Miracle—The Monk and the “Doubter”—Dean Stanley’s explanation—Joseph’s Tool Chest—The “Doubter’s” demand—The Witch of Endor “at home”—Blood-Revenge—A pertinacious feud—Saul and the Witch.
WE have bathed in the Sea of Galilee and played with the pebbles on its sandy beach; we have visited places named in Holy Writ, and henceforth their mention will have for us an additional charm. And now we will fold our tents like the Arabs, (or let the Arabs fold them for us,) and as silently steal away. Our faces are turned towards Jerusalem.
Our horses toil slowly up the ascent—a long and weary one—which leads from the shore of the sea of Galilee. At Tiberias we are six hundred feet below the level of the Mediterranean. The plain which we are now approaching is five hundred feet above us, and consequently we must make an elevation of eleven hundred feet to gain it. The way is rough in many places, and we wonder how it has been allowed to remain so in all the thousands of years that it has been in use.
As we emerge from the deep basin which encloses the lake we see before us a mountain, like a huge mound or tumulus, rising out of the plain and dominating it in all directions. It is Mount Tabor, and beyond it is the plain of Esdraelon. Between us and the base of the mountain lies an undulating plateau over which we find an easier road than the one we have just been climbing.
We are on the great route of the caravans, between Egypt and Damascus, and the first objects of interest are the ruins of “The Merchants’ Caravansary,” or—in the language of the country—Khan-et-Tujar; one of the pashas of Damascus built it about three hundred years ago, for the protection of the caravans which were often troubled by robbers in those days, but the buildings long ago ceased to be of any use, and have been allowed to go to decay.
They are worth an examination, as specimens of modern Saracenic architecture, and this is all.
We press forward toward Mount Tabor, and in an hour or more are at its base.
We ascend by a difficult path that winds among oaks and thickets of thorn bushes, and are brought to occasional halts by the slipping of saddles and other slight mishaps.
The “Doubter” while passing under an oak from which he has attempted to pluck a stick to serve as a whip. His hand has caught in the branches, his horse does not stop to ask what is the matter, and the next instant horse and rider have parted company. The horse goes on as if nothing had happened, and the “Doubter,” after hanging an instant, and reminding the person next behind him of the misfortune of Absalom, drops into the path below. The horse is caught by some one in advance; the “Doubter” is picked up and put together and after swallowing a dose of brandy is lifted into his saddle and enjoined to let the oak limbs alone in future. He bends so low for the rest of the ride, that his nose almost touches the mane of his steed. He is determined not to get into trouble again.
We reach the summit—fourteen hundred feet above the sea—and dismount from our panting horses. Lunch is served under one of the oak trees that invites us to rest beneath its foliage, and we endeavor to make ourselves comfortable. After lunch we devote a couple of hours to a ramble around the spot; we might camp here, but we prefer to pass the night at Nazareth, whither our camp was moved when we started from Tiberias.
We now find that Tabor is not circular in shape, but oval, the greatest measurement being from East to West. The summit is slightly rounded and is about a thousand yards long by half that in width. There are many ruins on the summit, or rather masses of ruins; the principal thing to attract the attention is a massive wall, or the remains of one, which enclose the most of the space. It was evidently a stronghold in its time, and was defended by bastions and towers, and gateways, one of which is still standing. There are the foundations of houses, some of them of considerable size, and we have no hesitation in accepting the statement that a strong and important town once stood here. There are cisterns hewn in the solid rock, and they have continued their uses down to the present time. We are permitted to slake our thirst with water, drawn from one of these cisterns—cisterns from which men have drank in all ages, from the days of Moses to the present time. Barak drank here when he assembled the hosts of Napthali to attack Sisera, the captain of Jabin’s army; Joshua and Gideon may have stood by this very well; here stood the Crusaders when they advanced upon Jerusalem, and here a few years later Saladin may have rested, as he exulted over the victory that expelled the hated Christian from the land. If we are imaginative, we can picture a kaleidoscope of warriors, who fill the pages of sacred and profane history and stalk before us like the line of Banquo’s Kings, which the witches revealed to Macbeth, and if, like the “Doubter,” we are unimaginative and do not believe, or care for anything, we will eat our cold chicken and boiled eggs, and say nothing.
The best view of this part of Palestine is obtained from Mount Tabor. The plain of Esdraelon is before us, or rather below us, and we can contemplate its undulations, its stipples of villages, its dark dots of trees, its ravines and its bright verdure—if the season is propitious—as we contemplate from our easy chair the figures upon our carpet. On the East we see the valley of the Jordan and the mountains of Gilead, rising like a long and rugged wall from the deep clift where the river flows. Hermon and the range of Lebanon fill the north and the ruin-crowned summit of Safed—the holy mount of the Jews where was “the city set upon the hill,” is full before us. In the West is Mount Carmel, the scene of Elijah s sacrifice—reverenced alike by Jew, Christian, and Moslem through all ages down to the present day. No other place disputes the honor, and Carmel is destined to possess it for all time to come.
South of us we have the mountain of Little Hermon, with the villages of Nain and Endor and other villages not far away. On the plain below were fought the battles of Barak and Sisera, and the guide points out the spot where the hosts were assembled.
In another direction he points out the scene of the battle of Hattin where, nearly seven hundred years ago, the Crusaders were defeated, and their hold upon Palestine was broken. Both armies were in full force; that of the Christians was led by the King of Jerusalem, and that of the Moslems by the great Saladin. The Christian army came to this plain and encamped there without water and greatly fatigued by their march. The Moslem army attacked them at dawn, and all day the battle continued. At its end the Christians had been overpowered with a loss of thirty thousand men. The remnant of the army fled to Acre, but the King was captured, together with the Grand Master of the Templars and Raynauld of Chatillon.
Saladin had threatened to put to death, with his own hand, this Raynauld through whose treachery the war had been brought on. He treated the other captives with the respect which their rank deserved, but showed the utmost contempt for Raynauld,
towards whom he kept his word. Raynauld was executed; the other prisoners were liberated and allowed honorable escort out of the country. Saladin was a noble old warrior, and he had the instincts of a gentleman, though he never wore a dress-coat and kid gloves, and did not understand how to dance the German or escort a lady to the opera.
Mount Tabor disputes with Hermon the honor of the Transfiguration. The tradition which locates it here dates from the fourth century, and was then generally believed. Churches and convents were erected on the summit of Tabor, and many pilgrimages were made there, and when the Crusaders came to Palestine they established a monastery there, and gave its abbot the authority of a bishop. The Greek monks come here in procession from Nazareth, on the occasion of the Feast of the Virgin, and the Latin monks have a festival, once a year, in honor of the Transfiguration. The exact location which the monks give for the miraculous event is near the southeastern angle of the fortifications, where a vault has been fitted up as an altar.
We descend from Tabor in the direction of Nazareth, and a ride of two hours from the summit brings us to our camp. The road is crooked and narrow, and winds among forests of oaks and tangles of brush, until within a mile or more of Nazareth, when we get among bare hills. A little out of our way is the dirty village of Deburich, on the site of Dabareth, which is mentioned twice in the Old Testament. There is nothing attractive about the place; it has the repulsive features of most of the Syrian villages, and you wonder how the natives manage to live, or even wish to do so. They discuss the “backsheesh” question with us, and we have the whole perambulating mass of dirt, rags, and sores adhering to us from the moment we enter the place until we are a quarter of a mile away. We set them upon the “Doubter,” by giving them to understand that he is the cashier of the party, but unfortunately they don’t stick to him long enough to give the rest of us any peace.
There are several objects of interest here connected with the life of Christ. The guide takes us to the Virgin’s Fountain, and to the church and convent erected over the grotto which is said to have been the dwelling place of the Holy Family. The town is situated in some ravines and along some ridges on the side of a hill overlooking the plain of Esdraelon, and the buildings appear to have been dropped down higgledy-piggledy, without any regard for regularity. The houses are better than those of many Syrian villages, as they are built of stone and are kept clean in all the places where dirt cannot accumulate. But they are repulsive enough inside, and one needs a pair of stilts to enable him to walk through the streets without soiling his boots.
The population is variously estimated—no census is ever taken—at from three to four thousand. Only about seven hundred of these are Moslems; the rest are Christians of three or four kinds, with the addition of a few Jews, who must be very unhappy among so many people of a different faith. But, taken altogether, the inhabitants are not a pleasing lot, and as you look at them, you do not wonder that the question was once asked, “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?”
Nazareth was unknown in history until the Annunciation. The event has been commemorated by the erection of a Latin convent, where a Greek church once stood over the site of the house of Mary.
The convent is of considerable extent, and has a massive exterior, followed by equal massiveness within. The church is about seventy feet square in its interior dimensions, and the roof is supported by strong piers, which are covered, as are also the walls, with paintings representing scriptural scenes. A flight of steps, fifteen in number, leads down to the chapel beneath the church, and in this chapel the scene of the Annunciation is located.
You first enter a vestibule about twenty-five feet by ten, and from this we enter the sanctum, which is of about the same dimensions. It contains a marble altar and a marble slab, with a cross upon it, which marks the spot where the Virgin stood at the time of the Annunciation. They show us a marble column cut in two, one part apparently suspended from the roof and the other a little way below it, and resting on the floor. The monks solemnly tell us, that the invading infidels cut through this column, in the hope of bringing down the roof, but a miracle interposed to uphold the column and has kept it there to this day.
Then they take us into a grotto back of the altar and up a staircase into the Virgin’s kitchen, which is only a small cave, and must have been a very poor sort of kitchen at best. The monks manifest much veneration for the Sacred Grotto, and pious people from Christian lands have made handsome donations for the support of the church at Nazareth. As the church stands over the site of the house of Mary, the “Doubter” demands to see the house. The guide tells him that it is gone, and while he is trying to make his statement understood, one of the English speaking monks puts in a word:
“You should understand,” he says, “that the house is at Loretta, in Italy, and that Loretto is called the Nazareth of Italy. It is the house that was here once, the real house of the Virgin Mary.”
“Yes, but how did it get there?” asked the “Doubter.”
“Who moved it, and how was it done? I don’t believe you could move one of these stone houses all the way to Italy.”
“Ah, there is the miracle, and I will tell you,” says the monk, and he begins to rattle away as though he had committed the story to memory from a guide book.
“The house stood here for hundreds of years, and then it happened that the Moslems defeated the Christians in battle, and threatened to destroy everything in Nazareth. They were camped in the plain, and sent an army up here. Just as the army came to the edge of the town, some angels came down and took the house away. They carried it to Europe, and set it down on a hill near Fiume, in Dalmatia, and then, when it was found that the place wasn’t safe, they took it away to Loretto, and there it is now.”
“Very strange,” says the “Doubter,” “very strange. And do they do this sort of thing often?”
“Not often,” replies the monk. “You see it was a miracle; and if they performed miracles every day they wouldn’t be miracles.”
The “Doubter” says he doesn’t believe a word of it, and turns away. The monk continues his account, and says:
“There can be no doubt that the house is in Italy, and that it was moved by a miracle. It was known to be there more than four hundred years ago, and the Pope, Leo X, told all about it in a papal bull, in the year 1518, and authenticated it so that there could be no chance for any body to disbelieve.”
Of course, there could be no chance after this. Dean Stanley thus explains this matter:
“Nazareth was taken by Sultan Kalil in 1291, when he stormed the last refuge of the Crusaders in the neighboring city of Acre. From that time, not Nazareth only, but’ the whole of Palestine, was closed to the devotions of Europe. The Crusaders were expelled from Asia, and in Europe the spirit of the Crusades was extinct. But the natural longing to see the scenes of the events of the sacred history—the superstitious craving to win for prayer the favor of consecrated localities—did not expire with the Crusades. Can we wonder that, under such circumstances, there should have arisen the feeling, the desire, the belief, that if Mahomet could not go to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mahomet? The House of Loretto is the petrifaction, so to speak, of the ‘last sigh of the Crusades.’”
From the Church of the Annunciation we are taken through some of the dirty streets and alleys, to Joseph’s workshop—a modern building fitted up as a chapel and held by the Latin monks. The structure is modern, but they show an old wall, or a fragment of it, in the interior, and this is quite sufficient.
The “Doubter” asks for Joseph’s tool-chest, and insists upon seeing it. They compromise the matter by bringing an axe of a very modern pattern, and bearing the word ‘Birmingham’ on the helve. This might do for one of the faithful, but the “Doubter” won’t swallow it, (not the axe, but the story,) in spite of the urgent assurance of the rest of us that it is all right.
Then they take us to “the Table of Christ,” where, according to tradition, our Saviour sat frequently with his disciples, both before and after the resurrection. It is only a table-shaped rock, about three feet high, and a chapel has been built over it.
The rivalry between the Greek and Latin churches is very bitter, and the monks at Nazareth tell some hard stories about each other. Their traditions do not agree in many points, and they are very tenacious about them. Thus, the Greeks claim that the angel’s first salutation to Mary was at the fountain, on the eastern side of the village, where she went often to draw water. It is called the Fountain of the Virgin, and the Greeks have erected a church over it and called it the Church of the Annunciation. In order to be impartial to the Greeks and Latins, every traveller should visit both churches.
The fountain is interesting, as affording a study of the habits of the people. The young women, and old ones too, come there to draw water and gossip and make eyes at the young men, tell all the late scandals, discuss the fashions, and display their pride, envy, friendliness, humility, and all the other sentiments and emotions that can be exhibited at such a place. How the gossiping tongues must have wagged at this fountain eighteen hundred years ago! and didn’t they criticise Mary and her family? The pretty, bare-footed girl who came daily to the fountain, to fill her jar, which she poised on her head before tripping gracefully homeward, little dreaming that she was to be the mother of one who should preach salvation to the world and found a religion to be embraced by all the civilized nations on the globe.
But we will leave Nazareth and wend our way southward.
We ride to Endor over a rough and rather dreary road, that winds over hills and through glens where robbers might waylay us, and where men have been waylaid on many occasions. In this part of the country murders are not infrequent, and are caused chiefly by feuds between tribes and families. Some of these feuds date back hundreds of years, and are based on the Scriptural theory of blood-revenge. Centuries ago there may have been a quarrel between two men, about some trivial matter, and the quarrel may have gone on till one of the men killed the other. Then a relative of the murdered man killed the murderer or one of his family, then this killing was avenged, then this, and then this; so it has gone and will go on, until one family is annihilated, and possibly both, and very often the feud extends to the different tribes. It is for this reason so many men go about with guns and pistols and eye each other so cautiously.
Nearly everybody, to use the vernacular of California, is “hunting for a man,” and sooner or later he finds him, or is found. It is rather respectable than otherwise to die with one’s boots on, here, just as it used to be in Arizona; and it is currently reported that when a man thinks he has had about enough of his native Syria, and has no row on his hands, he goes and kills somebody, so that this somebody’s relatives will turn to and kill him. He is thus able to accomplish two things—he can die like a gentleman, with the satisfaction of knowing that he has put somebody else out of the world in an equally gentlemanly way. And moreover, he bequeaths a legacy of blood-revenge to his descendants, that will give them something to occupy their minds with, and prevents the country becoming peopled too densely for comfort.
Endor is an uninteresting village, of not more than twenty-five houses, and it is the same thing over again—dirt, rags, and wretchedness—such as we have seen all the way along. We have had enough of it—let us move on.
CHAPTER XXVII—THE LAND OF THE PHILISTINES.—SAMARIA AND ITS PEOPLE.
The City of Nain—“Spoiling the Egyptians”—Ruins of an old Philistine City—Curious Strategy—The Torches in Pitchers—Kleber and the Turks—Ahab’s Palace—Tropical Picture—A Crusader’s Church—More “Backsheesh”—The Samaritans of To-day—The Mount of Blessings and the Mount of Cursings—A Despised People—A Strange Religious Belief—A Parchment Thirty-five Centuries Old—Jacob’s Well—Its Present Appearance—The Tomb of Joseph—The Scene of Jacob’s Dream—The Philistines’ Raid.
A RIDE of less than an hour from Endor takes us to Nain, the “City” of Christ’s time, but now a small village. The ruins show that the place was once important, and the guides point out the old cemetery, at whose gate the miracle is located.
As we ride on, we pass the valley of Jezreel, a fertile spot, which might be made productive in the hands of some other people than these lazy, shiftless Syrians. The inhabitants are a mixed lot, as they include, besides the regular hash of Moslems, Christians, and Jews, a colony of Egyptians brought here by Ibrahim Pasha. These fellows were put here, because of the richness of the soil, and the stern old warrior thought he had given them a good thing. But they have an impression that it is more honorable to steal than to work, and consequently make it rather disagreeable for their neighbors. The latter get even with them, by making occasional raids in return, and justifying themselves by some remark or other about “spoiling the Egyptians.” From what I can learn of their history, I think these Egyptians were pretty well spoiled before they came to Syria. By going a little out of way we can visit Beisan, the ancient Bethshean, whose ruins cover an area nearly three miles in circumference. It was a city of temples; four of these can be distinctly traced in one group, and others are scattered around promiscuously. Bethshean was of Phoenician origin, and was the principal abiding place of the Philistine god, Dagon. The citadel stood on the hill, overlooking the city, and on its walls the Philistines hung up the bodies of Saul and Jonathan.
The “Doubter,” on hearing this, looks for the bodies, and unable to find them, refuses to believe any part of the story.
Below the citadel is the theatre, semi-circular in shape, and nearly two hundred feet in diameter. Tradition says that Julian, the Apostate, used to give matinée performances here to his friends, at which he occasionally had a lot of Christians cut up. They were popular for a time, but the shrieks of the victims interfered so much with the conversation in the boxes and with peanut-selling in the galleries, that the show had to be given up.
There is a large fountain—Ain-Jalud—in this valley, where Gideon is said to have fought his celebrated battle with the Midianites, described in the Old Testament, when he ordered his men to conceal their torches in pitchers, which they were to break when the proper signal was given. It was one of the best pieces of strategy on record, and was brilliantly successful.
Several battles have been fought in this valley and in its neighborhood. The latest was that between the French and Turkish armies in 1799. Gen. Kleber had moved from Nazareth to attack the Turks, and was met by the enemy near the village of Fuleh.
He formed his army into squares, with artillery at the angles, and in this way resisted the charges of cavalry for six long hours. He had three thousand men and the Turks were fifteen thousand strong, but the effective fire of the French held the enemy in check, in spite of their determined bravery. At the end of six hours, Napoleon arrived with fresh cavalry and infantry and attacked the Turks on flank and rear. Thus surrounded, the latter became panic stricken, and retired in disorder, with heavy loss.
It was the discipline of Kleber’s division and its powers of continued resistance, that gave the victory to the French.
We soon arrive at the modern village of Sebustieh, which stands on the site of Samaria and has a population of four or five hundred Moslems, badly disposed towards strangers. The Crusaders built a church here and dedicated it to St. John, but it has been converted into a mosque, that cannot be entered without the use of the magical “backsheesh.” And this has to be applied skillfully, to avoid offense; a very good way is to take the keeper of the mosque into your confidence and do the “backsheesh” business through him Give him a fair allowance of piasters to distribute to the crowd after you have gone, and he will generally set his cudgel at work among them. He is an honorable man, and you can feel certain that he will faithfully distribute the money—to himself. Samaria was a fine city in its time, and the ruins that cover the hill confirm the accounts of the historians. Many of the stones of the old temples and colonnades have been built into the walls and terraces of the modern town so that the extent of the city is not perceptible to a casual observer.
From Nazareth to Nablous, we cross the basin just described, and climb a long ascent to the crest of a ridge. Thence our road is through glens and over hills, but it is less rough than most of the routes we have heretofore traveled. Nablous is a city of about eight thousand inhabitants. This is the ancient Shechem, which was assigned to the Levites and made a city of refuge—a place where a man who had murdered anybody or otherwise shocked the fastidiousness of his neighbors, could live a virtuous and respectable life and be safe from harm. No extradition treaty could touch him, and he might hope in course of time, to become mayor or alderman in his new home, and have a finger in the city treasury. The authorities used to try the refugees who came there, and, in case of wilful murder, the fellows were delivered up to justice. But if the trials were anything like those of murderers in olden times, it was a pretty safe thing for a man to get into a city of refuge, as he could plead accident and insanity, especially the latter, and get off without trouble.
Shechem, or Nablous, is chiefly interesting to-day as the residence of the Samaritans; there are considerably less than two hundred of them and they live now, as they did in Christ’s time, and long before it, following the same occupations, obeying the same laws and worshipping after the ancient manner. We read in the New Testament that “the Jews have no dealings with the Samaritans,” and the statement applies at this day and hour as it did when these words were written.
Down to a few centuries ago, there were colonies of Samaritans in three or four of the Oriental cities, but they have all disappeared except this one at Nablous. They date from the Assyrian conquest of Israel and the carrying of the people into captivity. They came from the East, to settle in the deserted cities, and added to their own religion some features of Jewish worship. Rejected by the Jews, they determined to have a temple of their own, and they erected it upon Mount Gerizim, one of the hills overlooking Shechem. They go there now, as they have always done, to celebrate the Feast of the Passover, and follow the mode prescribed in the twelfth Chapter of Exodus. Six lambs are roasted after the ancient method* and eaten by the people, and no infidel Christian, Jew, or Moslem is allowed to touch any of the meat or any part of the culinary apparatus. They accept the first five books of the Bible as their gospel, but reject all others; they accept Moses as the only law-giver, believe that a Messiah is to come, believe in the resurrection of the body, and in a state of future rewards and punishments, and they keep all the feasts and fasts enjoined in the Pentateuch. They also keep the feast of Purim, on the ground that it celebrates the journey of Moses to Egypt to deliver the Israelites, and not as the Jews celebrate it for the release of their people by Queen Esther.
What a strange people! The only remaining adherents of a faith that was once wide spread through Syria—a link binding us to the mystic past, and carrying us back more than thirty centuries of time. They are born, they live, they think, they worship, they die as their ancestors have done for more than a hundred generations. To them the present is a dream, the past the only reality.
They have a synagogue, and by dint of energy and “backsheesh,” we may visit it. They show us the famous Samaritan Codex, the copy of the Pentateuch, which is said to be the oldest MS. copy in existence. It is on parchment, about fifteen inches wide and twenty-five yards long, and is much defaced and injured
by time and handling. There has been much discussion concerning this parchment, and many pages have been written to prove or disprove its antiquity. The Samaritans claim that it is thirty-five hundred years old, and they give the name of the writer, but he is not there now to swear to the truth of the statement. As Sergeant Buzfuz would say, “his is in itself suspicious.” That it is very ancient there is no doubt, and the reader may take his choice as to date of manufacture. The “Doubter” says that he saw in the parchment the watermark “Eagle Mills”—Jones and Smith, encircling a flying eagle with a shield in his claws. But I don’t believe him.
We pass Gibeah, the ancient Geba, and next come to Bethel, now called Beitin, where Jacob lay down, as you see the Arabs lying now, with the earth for a bed and a stone for his pillow, and dreamed that he saw a ladder reaching to Heaven, and angels ascending and descending upon it. Abraham pitched his tent here, and here was buried Deborah, the nurse of Rachel, under an oak tree, which Jacob had chosen.
We pass Ramah, a heap of ruins, in which a modern village is huddled. Its inhabitants have no higher object than the extortion of “backsheesh” from travellers, and they keep up a steady din of supplications as long as we are in their vicinity. We pass out of the fertile country and come again among the limestone hills, the eternal hills “round about Jerusalem” We are looking anxiously for the Holy City, and finally, as the sun is sinking and the approaching night spreads the shadows over the glens and valleys, we climb the crest of Scopus and look away toward a rounded mountain, crowned with a monastery.
This is the Mount of Olives; nearer to us, and at its feet lies a city with grey walls and with domes and minarets rising above them. Do we need to be told that we are gazing upon Jerusalem?
We halt a moment at the Damascus gate. From one of the Arabs that gather about us, let us borrow the Enchanted Carpet, which may have belonged to his ancestor, celebrated in the Arabian Nights. Seating ourselves upon it, we utter a wish to return to Damascus, and behold, in an instant we are once more in the court-yard of Dimitri’s hotel.
