On the summit of an adjacent hill are the ruins of Maon, the residence of the churlish Nabal and his beautiful wife Abigail, and a mile to the north is the large fountain where this “son of Belial” held his annual feast,to whom David sent his famishing troops to ask permission to enjoy the festival as a reward for services which he had previously rendered to the ungrateful Nabal.[321]
The shrill call of the Bedouin sheikh roused me from my reverie as I sat on the small island in the sea recalling the past and receiving imperishable impressions of the changeless features of the “Vale of Siddim.” That night we were to sleep with the monks of Mâr Sâba, and the journey thither was long, toilsome, and dangerous. Filling a can with seawater, and gathering mineral specimens from the beach, we mounted. The path lay across an undulating plain to the right of Ain Jehâir, whose brackish waters nourish a thicket of canes and a few pale flowers. Ascending the rugged pass of Nukb el-Kuneiterah, one skirted for an hour the verge of a yawning ravine, the precipitous sides of which were as dangerous as the view below was grand and awful. Reaching in less than two hours the summit of the highest ridge, the Wilderness of Engedi lay before us, and through openings in the distant cliffs we caught farewell glimpses of the Dead Sea. Passing an encampment where the children were nude and the women unveiled,we were glad to drink of Arab leben, or soured milk, a beverage similar to that which Jael gave Sisera,[322] which was brought to us in a goatskin bottle. Descendinghills gray and barren, and crossing verdureless plains, we reached the Vale of the Kidron as the last rays of the sun were tipping the higher peaks of Moab. Wild and grand, the perpendicular sides of the gorge are more than 300 feet high. The limestone rocks are blackened with age, and perched on the highest portion of the ridge is the famous Convent of Mâr Sâba. Approaching night had now thrown a deeper shadow in the ravine below; the skies reflected subdued light, and from the transparent blue the stars began to shine. The fatigue of the day had left the mind pensive, and the silence of the hour was unbroken except by the chirping of some invisible songster. Winding round the brow of a bold cliff, the gray towers of the ancient monastery stood out against the evening sky, and from the uppermost turret a solitary monk in dark flowing robes was watching our approach. The ponderous iron gate of the convent was thrown open, and, led by one of the fraternity through an interior court-yard, where orange and lemon trees scattered their rich perfume, we entered the “Pilgrim’s Room.”
Like many other religious establishments, the monastery of St. Sâba rose from the devotion of a single hermit. Attracted by the solitude of the spot and the wild grandeur of the situation, some time in the year 483 A.D., St. Sâba, a native of Cappadocia, and a man of extraordinary sanctity, founded the convent which bears his name. His triumph over the “Lion of the Kidron” attracted his fellow-anchorites to the glen, to the number of 14,000, to share his glory and devotion. From the cells which they excavated in the rocks gradually rose the walls, towers, chambers, and chapels of the edifice; and so curiously are the several parts arranged, that it is difficult to determine the masonry from the native rock. Crowned with a dome and clock-turret, the church stands on the brink of the highest cliff, supported by enormous buttresses rising from the bed of the Kidron. The interior is after the Byzantine order, adorned with pictures, ornamental lamps, and sacred banners. Near the church is the charnel-house, where the bones of the pious have been carefully preserved from the time of the patron saint to the last brother deceased. The bodies of the dead are deposited in vaults till the flesh has wasted away, when the skeleton is broken to pieces, and the bones are piled up in ghastly array, arm with arm, leg with leg, skull with skull.
CONVENT OF SANTA SABA.
Though enlarged and beautified by monkish industry, the cave in which St. Sâba lived still retains its native rudeness. Among the pictures which adorn the walls is one representing the beheading of John the Baptist. The artist has transferred to the canvas the horror of the murder and the turpitude of the crime which led to the execution. In the background is seen the martyr’s cell, with barred window and iron door. Robed in green garments, the headless body of John lies prostrate upon the marble pavement, while over it stands the fierce executioner, holding in one hand his sword still dripping with blood, and in the other the bleeding head. With an air of triumphant revenge Salome is approaching, attired in ermine and adorned with a coronet of jewels, and bearing on her hands a charger to receive the dissevered head of the faithful minister of truth and purity.
The morning was far advanced when the iron gates of Mâr Sâba opened for our departure. The day was charming, and the ride to Bethlehem was one of extraordinary delight. The spring clouds, like softest gauze, screened us from the otherwise burning rays of a Syrian sun, and a gentle breeze from the Mediterranean came over the hills of Judea “fresh as the breath of morn.” It being early spring-time, Nature smiled in all her virgin beauty. Grasses and grains were ripening; flowers every where were in bloom; herds of cattle and flocks of sheep were feeding on the hills, and high up in mid air three eagles screamed as they soared above us.
In an hour from the monastery Jerusalem was seen to the north, and half an hour beyond I for the first time saw Bethlehem nestling among the Judæan hills. A flood of childhood’s memories rushed back to mind, unsealing the fountain of emotion as when in boyhood I was accustomed to read the story of the new-born King. On the south lay the Plains of Bethlehem, where shepherds were watching their flocks—some chanting a pastoral song, others playing upon their rude flute. The sterility of the wilderness had given place to cultivated fields, and along the wayside grew a pretty blue flower, of a stellar form, called by the monks the “Star of Bethlehem.” Passing through the small village of Beit Sahûr, we turned westward, and, ascending a well-made road, in half an hour we passed beneath the ancient portal of the City of the Nativity. The streets were crowded with people, and along the main thoroughfarewere merchants selling fruits, flowers, grains, vegetables, cutlery, saddlery, clothing, furniture, and ornaments, and mechanics of all kinds were pursuing their respective vocations.
VIEW OF BETHLEHEM.