Richardson and I were hemmed in at Jerusalem. The sea was so rough at Jaffa that it was impossible for passengers to get to the steamers. The wind and the rain made an overland trip very disagreeable. These conditions delayed us a couple of days. We asked for our bill at the American Colony for our two-weeks' stay. They said we owed them nothing. We wouldn't hear of such a thing, and insisted on making a payment. They suggested that we make a donation, as that was the custom. Richardson gave an amount which was the equivalent of seventy-five cents each a day. It was the finest board and room we ever received for such a price.
Early one morning we set out with a pack mule and a guide to see Palestine by horseback. We were bound for Nazareth.
WANDERING IN THE NEAR EAST
Palestine is the most barren, desolate and forsaken country—outside of a desert—that I have ever seen. Many people, in their religious enthusiasm, work themselves into a state where they imagine that its stony hills are thickly wooded; that its arid valleys are spots of beauty and its dull plains are fertile fields. I have heard tourists indulge in a series of platitudes in praise of some dreary hillside and vale which, in America, would not be fit for even post-holes. To speak in such a way about the Holy Land may seem sacrilegious. However, I would rather write the truth and run the chance of profaning this sacred country.
With our pack-mule and guide Richardson and I slowly crawled away from Jerusalem and our horses picked their course over the dismal plains towards the north. We drew near to the little village of Sha'fat, the ancient Nob. Not a soul was stirring. The place looked like a group of deserted and decrepit tombs. Bethel, the scene of many events recorded in the Old Testament, stood before us on a hill. Every village stands on a hill, is surrounded by cactus and stones and is inhabited by a lot of poor unfortunates who have sore eyes and are filthy and ignorant. A dozen loathsome and mangy dogs usually received us with their sickly-sounding barks. The simple people congregated and shouted bakshish. We rode through the rubbish-ridden streets, along the vile-smelling alleys and out into the open again. We didn't stop.
Along the road-side we saw occasional olive trees, two thousand years old,—if one was to believe what was said about them and if their appearance indicated anything. Sometimes a number of women and children would be gathering the fruit. In the plains a flock of sheep would be grazing. What they found to eat—unless it was the cobble stones—was a puzzle to me. We would pass a man on a donkey with his wife strutting along a few paces behind on foot. Or again we would be startled by actually seeing a live tree on the hillside.
Our destination for the first night was Nablus, the ancient Shechem and at one time the capital of Palestine. We came to Jacob's well, one of the most venerated spots in the Holy Land, and in a few minutes were in the town, an enterprising community of Jews, Moslems and a handful of Christians. Richardson, with grim inversion, described the place as the town where the dogs throw stones at you and the boys bite you in the leg. We were met at the city's gates by the usual reception committee of barking and snapping dogs and a score of Moslem youngsters who greeted the vile Christians by pelting us with rocks. To be the recipient of a cloud of precious stones from the skilful arms of youths who daily indulge in such a pastime was anything but comfortable. One lad planted a huge board with all his might across the tail of my horse. This sudden and violent stroke, together with the hailstorm of boulders, put a streak of life into an animal which had been practically dead ever since I had made his acquaintance.