But in the solitude of these mountain wanderings, we have had opportunities of seeing one phase of Arab life that we had really come out to see, and which was alone worth the journey.
We had started early one morning from Blidah, but not so early, that in deference to the wishes of some of our companions, we had first attended service in a chapel, dedicated to 'Our Lady of Succour.' We went into the little building, which, like some rare exotic, was flourishing alone, surrounded by the most discordant elements—situated hard by a mosque and close to some noisy Arab dwellings. Service was being performed in the usual manner, the priests were bowing before a tinsel cross, and praying (in a language of their own) to a coloured print of 'Our Lady,' in a gilt frame. There were the customary chauntings, the swinging of censers, the creaking of chairs, the interchanging of glances, and the paying of sous. Sins were confessed through a hole in the wall, and holy water was administered to the faithful, with a brush. Everything was conducted with perfect decorum, and was (as it seemed to an eyewitness) the most materialistic expression of devotion it were possible to devise.
Before the evening of the same day, we make a halt amongst the mountains. A few yards from us we see in the evening light a promontory; upon it some figures, motionless, and nearly the same colour as the rocks—Arabs watching the setting sun. The twilight has faded so rapidly into darkness, that we have soon to put by our work, and can see no objects, distinctly, excepting this promontory; on which the sun still shines through some unseen valley, and lights up the figures as they kneel in prayer. The solemnity of the scene could hardly be conveyed to the mind of the reader in words, its picturesqueness we should altogether fail to do justice to; but its beauty and suggestiveness, set us upon a train of thought, which, in connection with the ceremony of the morning, we may be pardoned for dwelling upon in a few words.
It was not the first nor the last time, that we had witnessed the Arabs at prayer, and had studied with a painter's eye their attitudes of devotion, the religious fervour in their faces, and their perfect abandon. The charm of the scene was in its primitive aspect, and in the absence of all the accessories, which Europeans are taught from their youth up, to connect in some way, with every act of public worship; and who could help being struck by the sight of all this earnestness—at these heartfelt prayers? What does the Arab see, in this mystery of beauty, in its daily recurring 'splendour and decline? Shall we say that the rising and the setting of the sun behind the hills, may not (to the rude souls of men who have learned their all from Nature), point out the entrance of that Paradise, which their simple faith has taught them, they shall one day enter and possess?
If it were possible in these days, when religious art assumes the most fantastic forms, to create ever so slight a re-action against a school which has perhaps held its own too long—if it were not heresy to set forth as the noblest aim for a painter, that he should depict the deepest emotion, the simplest faith, the most heartfelt devotion, without the accessories of purple and fine linen, without marble columns or gilded shrines, without furniture, without Madonnas and without paste—then we might point confidently to the picture before us to aid our words.
What if the heaven prayed for, and the prophet worshipped, seem to a Christian unorthodox and worse—there is sincerity here, there is faith, devotion, ecstasy, adoration. What more, indeed, does the painter hope for—what does he seek; and what more has he ever found in the noblest work of Christian art?
If he lack enthusiasm, still, before a scene so strange, let him think for a moment what manner of worship this, of the Arabs is; and contrast their system with that of the Vatican. The religion of the Arabs is a very striking thing, and its position and influence on their lives might put many professing Christians to the blush. An honest, earnest faith is theirs, be it right or wrong. If we examine it at all, we find it something more than a silly superstition; we find that it has been 'a firm belief and hope amongst twelve millions of men in Arabia alone, holding its place in their hearts for more than twelve hundred years.' It is a religion of Duty, an acting up to certain fixed principles and defined laws of life, untrammelled by many ceremonies, unshaken by doubts; a following out to the letter, the written law, as laid down for them by Mahomet, as the rule and principle of their lives.
If the whole system of the Mahommedan faith breaks down (as we admit it does) on examination, it does not affect our position, viz.:—that we have here an exhibition of religious fervour which seldom reaches to fanaticism, and is essentially sincere. Regarding the scene from a purely artistic point of view, we can imagine no more fitting subject for a painter, than this group of Arabs at their devotions—Nature their temple, its altar the setting sun, their faces towards Mecca, their hearts towards the Prophet, their every attitude breathing devotion and faith.
Setting aside all questions of orthodoxy, regarding for our particular purpose both civilised and uncivilised worshippers under their general religious aspect—how would it 'strike that stranger' who, descending from another planet, wondered why, if men's Duty was so clearly placed before them, they did not follow it—how would he view the two great phases of religious worship? Whose religion would seem most inspiring, whose temple most fitting, whose altar most glorious, whose religion the most free from question; the modern and enlightened, intrenched in orthodoxy and enthroned in state; or the benighted and un-regenerate, but earnest, nature-loving and always sincere?
We shall have perhaps (if we make a serious study of these subjects and put our heart into the work), to unlearn something that we have been taught, about the steady painting of Madonnas and angels, in our schools; but, if we do no more than make one or two sketches of such scenes as the above, we shall have added to our store of knowledge in a rough and ready way; and have familiarised ourselves with the sight of what,—though barbaric—is noble and true.